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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23588785">Put the Heart Back in the Throat</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Worlds_Okayest_Goalie/pseuds/Worlds_Okayest_Goalie'>Worlds_Okayest_Goalie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Men's Hockey RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, Gen, Rookie Adoption, Team as Family</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:14:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>33,727</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23588785</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Worlds_Okayest_Goalie/pseuds/Worlds_Okayest_Goalie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe Thornton is incapable of not inviting new Sharks to stay with him. Mario Ferraro is 185 lbs of pure optimism. This is a story set in the summer of 2019, which was a simpler and happier time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>66</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>121</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. New in Town</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was going to be a one shot and then...it wasn't.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Joe’s waiting in arrivals, nursing a weak cup of Starbucks coffee. The flight is on time, as far as he could see from the big display board. Somewhere to his left, someone has greatly overestimated their musical talent and is torturing a piano. He leans back in the cold, metal Starbucks chair and eyes the stairs. The kid will be here any minute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario’s coming out of the college system, so Joe’s not sure what to expect. When they come up from the AHL, they have a better grasp on their team’s adoption and mentoring system; they tend to submit to it more easily. Some of the guys come from college with an unmanageable independent streak and an inability to take feedback because they’ve been on their own for so long. He thinks Brauner was also a UMass alum, but that doesn’t really mean anything. He and Hoff had settled in, in large part because neither of them was a particularly high-maintenance person. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d warned the guys before he left, slipping on comfortable shoes, that they might be getting a standoffish, headstrong guy. It could take a long while for a rookie to adapt to having people helping manage his life. They still insisted on having a welcoming party, especially because a couple of the AHL guys were back in town. Joe doesn’t mind letting them set up in his backyard as long as they have some plans to clean up afterwards. He’s certainly old enough to be excused from cleaning up other people’s beer empties.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shifts in the uncomfortable chair. He’d dressed up a little, first appearances and all, but he’s eager to get back home and change. August in California is too hot for full pants. He stands to toss his coffee away and decides to move closer to the stairs. The piano has gone mercifully silent, so there’s just the cheerful chatter of vacationing families passing through baggage claim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s got his hands in his pockets, slouching a little, when he catches sight of the kid at the top of the stairs. Looks pretty much like his picture, curls and a broad smile. He practically bounds down the stairs and Joe has to smile in response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, welcome.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario’s got a bag on his shoulder, but Joe assumes he has a suitcase as well. Instead of moving towards the slow-moving luggage carousel, Mario aims directly for him and firmly hugs him. “Thanks for coming to pick me up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe’s a beat slow, but he hugs him back. “No problem. Your bags should be on the third carousel, I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just the one bag,” Mario says over his shoulder, already moving. “I figured I could always ask my mom to send more if I needed it, but the season doesn’t start for a while and I don’t even know where I’m living yet. I’ve lived out of my duffle bag before on roadies, so as long as no one expects me to show up somewhere in an unwrinkled suit today,  I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe follows along in his wake, letting him chatter. No one can say the kid doesn’t have energy. They’re watching bags slide past on the carousel when Joe asks, “So you don’t have a place yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, but it’s still so early. I’ll probably ask a few of the guys if they want to split a place. McCarthy texted me, added me to the group chat. He seems nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, Mac’s nice,” Joe says. He waits a moment and then offers, “You can stay with me until you find a place of your own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Mario looks up at him with those bright eyes. “Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got enough spare rooms, eh?” He smiles and nods towards the sea of suitcases. “What’s your bag look like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario shakes his head dismissively, “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He edges closer to the carousel. He misses his bag on the first attempt because he gets distracted by a young mother trying to juggle a toddler, a stroller, and a large suitcase. He uses the time waiting for his bag to return to fetch three other people’s suitcases and say hello to a dog. Joe watches him, amused. It’s possible his worries were unwarranted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario finally makes it back and smiles, patiently waiting for Joe to take the lead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, got everything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario nods. “Yeah, like I said, I packed lightly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, car’s this way.” They step out, the California heat like a wall after the air-conditioned airport.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow,” Mario says, blinking against the bright sun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome to San Jose,” Joe says with a laugh. “I hope packing lightly means you have shorts and sunglasses.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have some,” Mario says,  following Joe across the crosswalk to the parking garage. “But now I’m thinking maybe not enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, my place has enough A/C and fans to cool you off. The boys are probably in the backyard though, since they wanted to welcome you to town. You’ll have to put up with the heat a little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s fine,” Mario says easily. He tosses his stuff in the trunk when Joe opens it up. “Who’s coming? It’s so exciting to meet new people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe closes the trunk and goes around the car. He’s starting to wonder if Mario’s this unfailingly chipper all the time. Jumbo himself certainly wasn’t this pleasant or friendly when he arrived in San Jose, albeit under much different circumstances. “Gamby’s living with me and Kevin came back into town to move his stuff out of my place two weeks ago. Burnzie just got back, but he’ll drop by at some point to commandeer my grill. Middsy and baby Midds said they’d bring something to snack on, but I don’t actually know what that means. None of the goalies are back yet, but Eddie and Dilly should be available. Cooch refused to commit either way so he may or may not show. It’s mostly the Canadians and Americans, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario laughs, “I don’t know, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Joe says, waving his hand vaguely, “I mean. Canadians and Americans get back in town earlier than the Europeans usually. Every year I wonder if Marcus will actually make it back in time for training camp. He lives for his summers in Sweden.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That must be nice,” Mario says, paying attention though he’s staring at the scenery flashing by.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll have time to see the area before training camp starts,” Joe comments, laying a gentle hand on Mario’s knee as he drives on. “What do you like to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, um, I’m up for anything. Any recommendations?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Depends, there’s a lot close by. Good food in downtown Los Gatos. You can go into the Santa Cruz Mountains if you like to hike. You can go down to Santa Cruz if you like to surf. It’s a little more of a drive, but San Francisco is a great place to spend a weekend. I can help you find a teammate to play tour guide, depending on what you’re into.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks.” Mario smiles at him and even in his periphery, Joe can see the way Mario angles himself towards him. “How much do the Barracuda really get to interact with the Sharks? I know I might not even make the team this year,  but I’ve heard it’s nice to be in the same town and arena.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe shakes Mario’s knee a little. “Play like you’re gonna make the team.” He waits until Mario nods in agreement. “We see a lot of each other. We’re in and out of the same practice rink. There are a lot of guys who get called up and stay good friends with their Cuda teammates. Heck, half the guys I have camping in my backyard this afternoon are probably gonna be playing with the Cuda to start the year.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario smiles, pleased. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Plus,” Joe says quietly, making a careful turn, “our adoption system is pretty different. There’s a lot more personal oversight for the guys on the Cuda because they can come find a vet on the Sharks if they need us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not widely known, something they usually keep in the room, but Mario’s one of them now. It’s a bit of a fluke, but ever since the Sharks moved their AHL affiliate into the same town, things are different. Joe’s been pleased with the system; they’ve got a good room and part of that is not ignoring the kids who need help, even when it’s not exactly their job. Five years in, it’s hard to argue with the results.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Mario’s quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe knows adoption is a pretty big source of stress for rookies and there’s nothing he can say to alleviate that. He pats Mario’s knee as he pulls up. “We’re here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A car pulls up behind them and Joe smiles at his rearview mirror. “Grab your stuff and come say hi to Burnzie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario unbuckles himself quickly and slides out of the car. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie’s wearing shorts and slides and Joe spares a moment for jealousy. Standing in the full sun, on the sidewalk,  he can feel himself starting to sweat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Joe says. “The kid and I just got back, so we’re gonna change and then head out. Gamby, Timo and Kevin are already here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie grins and drags Joe into a hug. “Having fun playing chauffeur?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe shakes his head and hugs him back hard. “Go get the grill started. At least a couple of the kids promised they’d bring burgers or some shit and I’m not letting any of them near an open flame.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario comes up next to them, hands full of his stuff. He smiles, but carefully doesn’t interrupt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t let them either,” Burnzie laughs. He ruffles Mario’s hair lightly. “How’d you like your burgers? There is a right answer,” he says seriously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario looks a little startled. “Uh, whatever. I don’t say no to food?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that’s the right answer,” Burnzie says, pleased. He claps Mario on the shoulder. “Go change and burgers will be up soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie goes around the house to the unlocked sidegate while Joe ushers Mario inside. “Spare room is over there, you can just dump your stuff wherever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves Mario there and goes to change himself. No need for a nice shirt and long pants in his own backyard. It’s a damn sight cooler in shorts and a loose t-shirt. He grabs a battered, old hat on his way out of his room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heads out back, the wooden porch warm under his bare feet. The boys are in the big adirondack chairs, a few of them sharing a chair rather than sit on the ground. Keaton pokes Kevin quietly to tell him Jumbo’s behind them. Joe’s gotten to see him a little more with his brother up and down, but he still hasn’t quite relaxed around the vets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gamby doesn’t know where the cooler is,” Kevin says accusatorily, leaning back so he can see Jumbo on the porch. It’s not quite the greeting Joe was expecting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You lived here way longer,” Dylan points out, unruffled. “Shouldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you check the garage?” Joe leans over the porch railing. “Also, Timo, get the fuck off that chair before you both break it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why doesn’t Middsy have to move?” Timo argues, while Jake looks a little smug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His ass is in the chair, so he has dibs,” Joe points out patiently. “You’re big boys. Make Gamby and Gregs swap with you guys.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah moves with little complaint, perfectly comfortable taking Timo’s place with his legs draped sideways over the arm of Jake’s chair. Ideally, that should balance the weight a little more and prevent a repeat of 2009’s Chair Catastrophe. Joe can </span>
  <em>
    <span>afford</span>
  </em>
  <span> more chairs, but it’s the principle of the thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo protestingly lays down in the grass instead of squashing Dylan, sprawling out. They all ignore him accordingly, except for Kevin who taps at his hip appeasingly with one foot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I looked in the garage,” Dylan says earnestly, dragging them back on topic. “And I really, really did check. It wasn’t there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, shit, “ Joe remembers. “It’s actually in the car. I took it on a camping trip this summer. Someone come help me with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he gets to the garage, he finds Kevin at his elbow, which is pretty much who he expected to follow him. “Did someone grab ice?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. It’s in one of the big freezers. I can grab that if you want to put the cooler in the kitchen for now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe pops the trunk and drags the giant blue cooler out. It’s a little dinged up, dark marks showing where it’s been sat in dirt, but it works. As he wrangles it through the narrow doorway, he hears Mario say, “Thanks,” and the screen door smacks shut in the distance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kevin’s got the bags of ice piled on the floor and he helps open them up. They dump the bags into the cooler in layers, haphazardly sticking in whatever beers people brought. There’s a case of La Croix on the kitchen counter that Kevin picks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who,” Joe says with a sigh, “brought that?” He’s too old for the nonsense, not hip enough to understand why anyone would want to drink water flavored with the corpse of a grape. Either drink a beer and relax, or hydrate with some plain fuckin’ water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kevin shrugs. “Gregs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, put a few in, I guess.” It’s a little less room for a decent beer, but Joe can make concessions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He definitely brought hotdog buns,” Kevin offers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe hums his approval. “Alright, help me get this outside.” This isn’t the first time they’ve done this and it’s easy to carry it into the porch shade against the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guys have somehow moved the chairs even closer together, making a little semicircle. Mario’s sitting in Gamby’s lap, legs sprawled out. He clearly found some shorts and he doesn’t look like he’ll be the biggest sunburn risk (Joe reminds himself to shove some SPF 50 at Kevin in a little while).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs a beer for himself and after a moment’s thought, grabs another one for Mario. He stands at Mario’s side briefly, casting a short shadow over his lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario tilts his head up, squinting slightly against the sun. He asks politely, “Do you need something?” He looks like he’d actually get up and go if Joe wanted him to, but Joe shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds the beer out, but doesn’t let go when Mario wraps a hand around it. Mario looks quizzical until Joe says, “This is yours. You start with one and you come ask me if you want any more. Otherwise, you’re drinking water.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He always does this with the newbies. It reduces the amount of puke he has to clean up, keeps the new kids from doing anything so stupid it can’t be forgiven, and it reminds the rookies that there are people looking out for them. The ones who argue right off the bat that they’ve been drinking since they were sixteen in the OHL or since they went to college or whatever automatically get marked down as needing a firmer hand by the time adoptions roll around. Keeping rookies from getting completely wasted in the middle of the offseason when there are no other news stories to hide behind also helps keep the PR team from yelling at all of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario just smiles and takes the beer. “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe walks away, watches Burnzie deftly flip a couple burgers over. There’s a yelp of indignation and, when he looks, Mario’s got Gamby’s beer too. He’s sitting on top of Gamby, so he doesn’t have anywhere to go with it, but he leans back anyway and Gamby keeps a firm hand on his shirt, trying to reel him in. They’re having some heated discussion. Joe rolls his eyes, but doesn’t move to break them up just yet. He’s a little curious about what would prompt such intense discussion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan hisses something, lurching forward like he’ll risk dumping them both on the grass just to get his drink back. Joe only catches the tail end of it, trying to figure out whether he should intervene or let them wrestle in the grass. Mario’s quiet, but clear when he says, “Of course he’ll play.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> It’s not hard to guess that they’re talking about him, which makes Joe somewhat gladder he hadn’t stepped in. Gamby says something unintelligible and manages to take his beer back, keeping Mario close to him as he leans back in his chair again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie nods subtly in his direction. “Kid know something we don’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If he does,” Joe sighs, “he hasn’t told me.” He speaks slowly, like each word is costly. “I’ve earned a summer off. I’m old enough to think before I act.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfectly ancient,” Burnzie agrees solemnly, a twinkle in his eye. He steals Joe’s beer. “Go rescue your son.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a testament to Joe’s inability to stop inviting rookies into his house that it takes him a minute to figure out who he’s supposed to be rescuing. Timo’s bugging Kevin, slipping ice cubes down his back every time Kevin tries to turn and talk to Midds. They melt quickly under the sun and the entire back of Kevin’s shirt is soaked. Joe can tell Kevin’s about one ice cube away from pouring a drink over Timo’s head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Joe shouts, generally in the direction of the rookies. Their heads pop up like meerkats and Joe has to suppress a laugh. “Half of you are on the ground. There should be hammocks in the shed if you don’t mind finding them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can help find them,” Kevin volunteers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, bud,” Joe says, eyeing the rest of them. Kevin might know where they are, but it’s not his job to run errands for the rest of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo gets up, still holding onto his drink and ambles after Kevin. Mario unpeels Gamby’s hand from his shirt and follows them, looking interested. They walk in the opposite direction shortly thereafter, dragging the big rope hammocks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After Joe steals his beer back from Burnzie and eats a burger, he goes into the house to find the sunblock. The fact that the house suddenly feels abnormally cool is a sign that it’s definitely time to put more sunscreen on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has a giant pump bottle for occasions like this and he grabs it. Sitting on the porch steps, he claps his hands once to get everyone’s attention. “Sunscreen time! If you say no now and get burned, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>be ignoring all of your sad texts about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kevin and Dylan come over first, both aware that they’ll burn and trusting of Joe’s timing on the sunblock. Joe sets the big bottle on the steps next to himself and lets anyone who wants it grab some. Middsy finishes covering his arms minimally and uses what’s left on his hands to clasp the nape of his brother’s neck, leaving a white imprint. Keaton swats at him and rubs it in, rolling his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got too much,” Mario says, frowning slightly as he looks at the small amount still in one palm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here,” Joe says, practically. “Get my face.” Mario’s standing in front of him, so he just tilts his face up and closes his eyes. There’s a brief pause and then Mario’s finger makes a few quick, cool swipes down the bridge of Joe’s nose and across his cheekbones, carefully avoiding his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Move your hat a little?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe opens his eyes to tilt his hat up. Mario rubs it in up to his temples and down his cheeks, skirting around the edges of his beard. He looks very serious, so Joe tries not to laugh at him. He’s really doing Joe a favor; he’d like to go grab more food without having to wash the greasy sunscreen off his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario steps back and inspects him. “I think I got everything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Joe says with an easy smile, pushing his cap down again. “Grab me another drink? You can get one too if you’re done with your first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario shrugs and wipes his hands off on his forearms. “I’m good.” He steps over and grabs a drink for Joe, though, twisting the top off casually and handing it over. “I’m gonna go finish my food for now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe stays there on the warm, wooden steps, drinking a cold beer, and watching Middsy try to lovingly strangle Gamby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly comes in as the heat of the afternoon is fading, the squeak of the side gate announcing him. He grins when he sees them, looking as cheerful as ever. “Anyone still hungry? I brought more food.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve handled lunch, but I’m sure some of the guys will be ready for dinner soon.” Joe says from where he’s reclining on the porch steps. “If it needs to be refrigerated, stick it inside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly taps his foot against Joe’s hip as he climbs the stairs. “Pretty quiet, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got a hell of a lot quieter once Timo took a nap,” Joe laughs. He looks across the yard to where Kevin is sitting upright on one of the hammocks, pushing with one foot to make it sway slowly. Timo’s curled around his back, fast asleep in the shade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aww, cute. How’s he doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s antsy,” Joe says. “He tried to argue with Cooch that he was too old to be adopted again. He tried to argue that he’d be fine on his own. He even tried to argue that he should be allowed to adopt a rookie of his own.” Dilly shakes his head at that as Joe continues, “It’s gonna be a hell of a fight to get him to shut up and let someone take care of him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t blame Timo for being upset,” Dilly says quietly, seriously. “Not like we really expected Pavs leaving either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe expected it, though he never said anything. The writing was on the wall. He hums noncommittally and Dilly leaves him there to put things inside. The screen door closes loudly and when Joe leans back to see, Dilly’s inexplicably holding one of the leftover cans of La Croix.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know there are real drinks, right?” He points to the cooler.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh, I’m good with this for now.” Dilly takes a long sip and then grimaces slightly. “No, you’re right, what the fuck goes into these?” There’s a cheer that goes up from the side of the yard and Dilly laughs from the top of the stairs when he sees Burnzie proving he can dead-lift Gregs.  “He’s only got one party trick, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe snorts. Someday, Burnzie is gonna throw out his back doing dumb shit like that, but Joe’s not gonna tell him that. Burnzie does a couple squats, blatantly showing off for the impressionable rookies. Someone is going to have to learn Pavs’ yearly ‘Please Don’t Imitate Burns’ speech now or one of the rookies is gonna drop someone on their head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie says something as he sets Noah down, cajoling. Mario stands up from the grass and lets Burnzie take his hand. He looks nervous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Burns,” Dilly says, hopping easily down the steps, “don’t break our newest D-man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not gonna break him,” Burnzie scoffs, lifting Mario, who makes a surprised squeak, up to his shoulders. “I haven’t dropped anyone since Juniors. And that wasn’t entirely my fault,” he says defensively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You good, kid?” Dilly says, looking up at where Mario’s being held.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario gives him a thumbs up. “I’m good. I’m jealous of whatever training routine he has, but I’m good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie laughs. “We’ll bulk you up, no problem.” He swings Mario down to his feet gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re done pretending you’re a circus strongman, I’m hungry,” Dilly says. “If you don’t make food, I’ll be forced to take over the grill.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” Jake says, “are we </span>
  <em>
    <span>allowed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to take over the grill?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Dilly and Burnzie say in unison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Middsy put his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. Then I also vote for more food.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re all bottomless pits,” Burnzie says, shaking his head. Still, he goes back to the grill and tells Dilly to grab another pack of hamburger patties out of the fridge and puts Noah on tomato slicing duty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He works fast and almost everyone takes another plate. Dilly drags a fruit platter out of the fridge as well and Burnzie lets Jake and Keaton try to skewer pineapple pieces for grilling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario comes over to the steps, holding six or seven bottles. “Where’s your recycling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Side of the house,” Joe says, pointing to where the bins are. “Those can’t all be yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Mario says, looking a little startled. “I was going to throw my bottle in the recycling and I thought I’d grab a few more. Can I have another?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Joe says. “Same rules. Come find me if you want another.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario smiles and nods agreeably, wandering off with his hands full. Joe hears the clink of the glass bottles from the side of the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw,” Dilly says, abandoning the La Croix for a beer. “Is the rookie trying to impress you with his ability to tell the difference between trash and recycling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s more than you knew when you moved out here,” Joe laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly chucks a half-melted ice cube at him. “I’m going to go sit with the kids. They’ll appreciate me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario fishes another drink out of the cooler, shakes the icy water off his hand, and goes to bother Burnzie into making him a hotdog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan sits down on the steps next to Joe. “You want anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, I’m fine for now. You planning to unhinge your jaw to eat that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan looks down at his overflowing burger. “It’ll fit. Probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t choke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I do,” Dylan says with a grin, “I’ll still be your problem. You remember how to do the heimlich?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t choke,” Joe says again, rolling his eyes fondly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Incoming,” a voice shouts cheerfully from the side of the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Plates up,” Burnzie hollers. He’s worked too hard to watch food go to waste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jake grabs his plate and Keaton’s just in time for Kelly to trot around the corner and make a beeline for Dilly, who pats her ears softly. Nicky is not far behind, stretching up hopefully at where Noah has his hotdog well out of her reach. He pets her gently and nudges her away. Jake hands the plates to Keaton so he can call Nicky over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s the last in, Macy cradled in one arm. He waves at Burnzie and tries to set Macy down. It doesn’t quite take, so he carries her over to the cooler to grab a beer and say hi to Gamby and Joe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I pet her?” Dylan asks, gesturing with his drink. He scoots over on the porch steps, leaning into Joe’s legs, so there’s room for Eddie to sit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm,” Eddie hedges, “just see if she settles down a little. She’s not the biggest fan of new people and sometimes she’s a little less cranky once her sisters have checked everything out first.” He plops Macy into his lap, where she remains on alert.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the yard, Jake is on his back, letting the dogs clamber all over him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“New kid here?” Eddie asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mario? Yeah,” Dylan says, scanning until he catches sight of him, standing by the grill. “He’s over there. You missed Burnzie lifting him over his head, but I got a picture.” He leans over to show Eddie, who laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh man,” Joe says, “please send that to the group. Show the guys what they’re missing.” Behind him, the automatic porch light kicks on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Already did,” Dylan says smugly. “Deller is jealous I think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If he tries to persuade Burnzie that he’s not too big to be lifted six feet in the air, I’ll kill them both,” Joe groans, taking another sip of his beer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooh,” Dylan hums, “and Erik sent a heart, a shark, and a cry-laughing emoji.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shakes his head. “Why is Erik even awake right now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a fair question, given the time difference. Joe gets distracted by Dilly waving him over and puts the thought away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we light the fire pit? It’s getting dark out.” Dilly nods at where Joe had already set up the logs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, go ask Gamby to find the marshmallows.” Joe strikes a long wooden match and waits patiently for the fire to catch. It grows slowly and the guys start dragging chairs around, scraping against the rough patio tiles. Burnzie moves the grill to the edge of the patio so there’s more room for all of them. There aren’t a lot of mosquitos in the Bay Area, but it’s still nice to move closer to the heat of the fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan still hasn’t reemerged with a bag of marshmallows, so Joe taps Baby Midds on the shoulder. “Can you go see if Gamby’s found the s’mores stuff? It should be in the cabinet next to the fridge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Keaton agrees amiably, ceding his chair to his brother and going in search of Dylan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe pads across the yard, feeling the cool, soft grass underfoot. Timo’s still asleep and Kevin’s still slowly rocking the hammock, holding his empty plate in his lap. Kelly’s a few feet away, eyeing Kevin hopefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe puts a gentle hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go find the s’mores skewers? I don’t know if Gamby can find them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kevin looks up at him, pale in the low light at the edge of the yard. “He’s sleeping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. I’ll look out for him. You go join the others for a while. Take Kelly with you or Eddie’s gonna start complaining about how we keep trying to steal his girls.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kevin smiles faintly, pulling the hammock to a standstill slowly. “Skewers still in the back of the silverware drawer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope so. If they aren’t, we’re about to see some very stupid decisions around a fire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kevin stands very carefully, trying not to jostle Timo. “Kelly, c’mon. Yeah, let’s go!” She follows him, nosing at his knees like he’ll suddenly decide she deserves a whole burger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe sits on the edge of the hammock. It’s a thick, sturdy thing and he’s pleased that it doesn’t creak as it takes his weight. Timo slides into him slightly as the hammock tilts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe can see better now, adjusting to the lower light. Timo’s brow is furrowed slightly, his mouth set unhappily. Joe turns so he can rest his hand on Timo’s bicep. “Hey, buddy, you’ve had a hell of a nap. Time to wake up.” He rubs at Timo’s cool skin. “Timo, you’re gonna be pretty stiff and cold if you stay here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm?” Timo opens his eyes and rolls onto his back. The hammock sways with the movement. “It’s dark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sure is. Time for s’mores.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Time for Dilly to almost set Burnzie on fire?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Joe laughs quietly. He stands, holding the edge of the hammock so Timo can get his bearings. “Might want to get your share before we have to go for a fire extinguisher.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Man, how long did I sleep?” Timo swings his legs over the edge and takes Joe’s helping hand up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Few hours. Bancer rocked you like a baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo makes a vaguely disgruntled sound. Joe ignores it completely. “Come on. Let’s see if the newest rookie can take over Dilly’s job and try to set someone on fire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly,” Timo rolls his eyes, “how hard is it for Dilly to just not wave a flaming marshmallow around?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe laughs and shepherds Timo in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Timo says, pleased, “Eddie’s here.” Nicky has spotted them and is coming full tilt for Timo. He drops to his knees to ruffle her fur and make cooing noises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She dances around them until Timo settles into a chair with Dylan. Leaning into Dylan, a dog at their feet, he looks more normal than Joe’s seen in a while. It’s been a hell of a summer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here,” Mario offers. He holds out a hot s’more to Timo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo looks surprised for a moment, then grins. “Thanks. I owe you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you pass me the marshmallows before </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> eats them all?” Mario’s grin doesn’t waver as he peers around Timo pointedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, ah, where are they?” Timo twists, trying to spot them. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Gregs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah loses the fight for the marshmallow bag, mostly because he can barely breathe around the marshmallows stuffing his cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario stacks three marshmallows on his skewer, turning them carefully as he listens to the chirps and laughter flying around him. Joe leans on the back of Burnzie’s chair, watching Mario.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s sharing the chair with Jake, who’s got an arm around his waist to keep him balanced, but is otherwise occupied in arguing with Burnzie about whether a s’more is better with the chocolate underneath the marshmallow or on top. Joe doesn’t have a clue what the fuck they’re arguing for, since Burnzie swallows the damn things whole, like a snake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario pulls his marshmallows when they’re toasted and sagging slightly on the skewer, golden and lovely. He makes three s’mores, stacking them in his lap with a look of fierce concentration. He leans away from Jake briefly to hand one to Eddie, who’s been preoccupied with keeping the dogs at a safe distance from the fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks surprised and then very softly fond. “Thank you. You gonna eat any yourself? Or is this the new diet to win the Calder? No sugar whatsoever?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario recoils, grimacing. “Fuck no. I eat healthy and I work out, but my summer plan absolutely includes dessert.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie smiles and nods, munching on the s’more. He carefully keeps it away from Macy who’s eyeing it like she would both like to fight it and eat it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe’s distracted by Macy for a moment, amused by her perpetual desire to fight anything and anyone despite being barely a handful of fur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he gets gently elbowed in the side, he looks down to see Mario next to him. “Here, for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Joe takes the s’more. It’s still warm and a little squishy. “Thank you. You getting enough marshmallows? I can go dig in the cupboards if Gregs inhaled all of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m good.” Mario smiles, eating the last s’more in his hands. He stays there, just brushing against Joe’s side. Joe watches him as he nibbles on the s’more, watches the fire catching the curves of his curls and the crinkles around his eyes when Dilly manages to set yet another s’more on fire. This year, Baby Midds comes in clutch with the save and catches Dilly’s skewer before it gets too close to anyone else’s face. Joe claps admiringly and congratulates him, laughing a little at Dilly’s indignant face. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mario frown slightly, looking down at his hands. “Actually, I’m not good. I’m very sticky.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe laughs. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. You can go rinse in the kitchen if it’s bugging you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario inspects his hands briefly in the flickering light, tapping tacky fingertips together. “Yeah, I’m going to leave sticky fingerprints everywhere.” He wanders inside, stopping along his way to scoop up a few abandoned cans from the grass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He going home?” Timo asks curiously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t have ‘home’ yet,” Joe says, leaning down on Burnzie’s shoulders to get closer to Timo. “He’s staying with me for now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Couldn’t resist?” Timo asks, a cheeky edge to his question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course he couldn’t,” Burnzie says scornfully. Joe’s forearm must be digging into his shoulder, but he just clasps his hand around Joe’s wrist delicately. “See, he’s already trying to keep me here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe elbows Burnzie gently. “You haven’t left, so clearly it’s working.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie laughs at that and squeezes Joe’s wrist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a good evening, lively even as things start to wind down and the guys trickle out. Eddie leaves first, though he has a hell of a time persuading Nicky to leave Kevin. Burnzie follows him out, hugging everyone he passes on his way to the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to bed,” Joe says finally, clapping Kevin on the shoulder. “You’re in charge of dousing the fire before you leave. If you want to crash here, you know where your bed is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kevin nods in agreement. “I’ll make sure everything’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I’m gonna go to bed too.” Mario stifles a yawn. “It’s been a long day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe manages to get halfway through getting ready for bed before he realizes the downstairs bathroom probably doesn’t have towels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rummages in the linen closet and knocks gently on the guest bedroom door. “Hey,” he says when Mario opens the door. “Thought you might want towels. I’ll give you the grand tour tomorrow, but if you need anything, just come find me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario takes the towels and, keeping his eyes studiously fixed on Joe’s face, ekes out, “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe doesn’t laugh, because it’d be mean, but the kid better get used to Joe walking around in his boxers if he’s going to stay  for a while. He’s not sure if the kid is naturally prudish or he’s got some kind of complex about Joe, specifically. Either way, several doses of the Sharks locker room ought to cure him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe leaves his door slightly open (in case Mario does need to come find him) and settles down in bed properly. He can still hear faint conversation through his open bedroom window and he falls asleep with the distant laughter washing over him like waves.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Meet the Team</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So many more of you than I expected left lovely notes on the last chapter. I really appreciate it! You guys are the best &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Joe’s most of the way through breakfast by the time Mario wanders out into the kitchen. “Good morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario waves at him and heads straight for the fridge. “You have eggs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yup, fridge door. My egg pan is still on the stove if you want to just reuse it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Mario says. “Is there coffee?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should be enough, yeah. If not, I’ll show you how to start more before Gamby wakes up.” Joe gestures at his coffee pot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario picks up the carafe and looks at it. “Seems like enough. Mugs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cupboard behind you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm, thanks.” Mario grabs a mug and pours the coffee in. He adds a little milk and then gets on with his eggs. Joe watches him for a moment, just to make sure he’s actually capable of handling eggs and then leaves him to it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lunch today with Logan.” Joe doesn’t bother framing it as a question. Where else could Mario be planning to go for lunch?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Couture?” Mario turns away from his eggs for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s the one,” Joe smiles. “I’m going to go shower. Tell Dylan about lunch if he wakes up while I’m upstairs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Where are we going for lunch?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t know yet,” Joe admits,  setting down his newspaper and clearing his dishes from the island. “Cooch will probably pick somewhere fairly nice and extremely bland. Does it matter?” He sticks his mug in the dishwasher. He can run it after the boys are done with breakfast, since it’s nearly full.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah. It’ll be cool to meet him,” Mario says with a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Might see Dilly too,” Joe says on his way out of the kitchen. “Depends on how persuasive Cooch is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time Joe has showered, dried his beard, stared too long in the mirror at his grey hairs, and found a decent looking shirt, Dylan has woken up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Joe walks into the kitchen, Dylan’s leaning against the counter, eating eggs next to Mario who’s somehow still making eggs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Gamby says cheerfully. “Can we keep him?” He holds up his plate of eggs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He make you breakfast?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan nods, looking far too pleased with himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe ruffles Mario’s curls. “Sure, we’ll keep him.” He turns to Dylan and asks, “How are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>planning on being useful enough for me to keep, huh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna show Mario around!” He bumps his hip companionably against Mario’s. Mario smiles at him, but keeps his attention on his eggs. “Also, I washed all the skewers from last night while Kevin just stared at me, so I think that should earn me some points.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did notice they were clean and dry,” Joe agrees, patting Dylan’s shoulder. He’d checked the yard when he got up and they’d all done a good job of cleaning up after themselves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mario says we’re going out to lunch. Do I have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>dress up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Real pants and a t-shirt,” Joe compromises. He’s not taking his rookie out in sweatpants and a shirt full of holes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” Dylan nods agreeably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you’re done with breakfast,” Joe says to Mario, “I’ll show you around the house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a pleasant way to pass the morning. The boys decide to fit a workout in before lunch and Joe answers a few emails.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Joe hollers from the foyer. “It’s lunch time. Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan clatters down the stairs and slips on his shoes. Mario emerges with significantly less noise, but no less excitement, looking perfectly delighted to be going out for lunch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan claims shotgun, but Mario doesn’t seem bothered. He leans forward from the back seat and chats with Dylan the whole way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I had to tell my mom she was right and I didn’t pack enough shorts,” Mario admits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is she sending you some?” Dylan’s half-paying attention and half on his phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, she told me to go shopping. It’s not like I don’t have the time,” Mario points out reasonably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Timo could take you,” Joe suggests. “He actually enjoys shopping. Or whenever Erik gets back into town, I’m sure he’d be happy to take you too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Karl likes buying pants that are way too tight,” Dylan warns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Europeans,” Joe says with a distracted shrug. “I’m sure he’s capable of finding less form-fitting pants.” Joe parks neatly and turns around slightly to see Mario. “Just let me know if you want me to ask Erik.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s still in Europe, right?” Mario fumbles with the seat belt buckle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but he’ll be back soon. He’s ready to play, I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, right,” Mario says,  as they get out of the car, sounding a little worried. “He was injured at the end of the season, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Groin,” Joe confirms, herding the two of them in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t good,” Dylan says, “But he says it feels 100% now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Couture is lounging at the end of a row of small tables and he waves them over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he says, sticking his hand out to Mario. “Welcome to San Jose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario shakes it seriously. “Nice to meet you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry I couldn’t make it last night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No worries. Mario made some great s’mores, but I’m sure he can demonstrate that skill for you some other time.” Joe can see Mario lighten up a little, a smile on his face. Joe wrestles with a chair for a minute, wondering if the tables have always been this small. They’ve eaten here before, but he’s never struggled so much to fit his legs under the table. “Alright, scoot down,” he motions at Dylan and Mario. “There’s not enough room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think they redecorated,” Cooch says, looking up at the ceiling. “I remember there being little fig leaves stenciled around the doorframe. Don’t know why they decided to go with miniature furniture though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, we definitely can’t bring the whole team here if none of us can fit at a table.” Joe finally manages to cross his legs enough to avoid being a hazard to anyone walking by. Dylan and Mario have both moved one seat down and seem to be just fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bet the food’s still worth it though,” Cooch says, passing out the stack of menus in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that a spare?” Dylan asks, looking at the extra menu.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, Dilly said he’d join us. And there he is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, what’s with the Grand Canyon between you guys?” Dilly leans on the chair back next to Joe. “Aww, Gamby did you get put at the kids’ table?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan whacks his arm with his menu. “Oh, shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ow, hey. Very rude. Jumbo, haven’t you taught your rookie manners?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just sit down, Dilly,” Jumbo says shaking his head. “Quit bugging the kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly drags a chair out and sits, bumping hips with Dylan until he obligingly slides his chair over a few inches. “So are we getting our own things or sharing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m up for sharing,” Cooch says, setting his menu down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. Sounds good to me,” Mario agrees. “How big are the portion sizes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Decent,” Joe says. “Though the veggie pasta dishes are generally bigger than the meat ones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it possible to split a calzone?” Dylan leans briefly on the table and then jumps back when it wobbles slightly under him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing is impossible if you believe,” Dilly says solemnly, before he breaks and flashes a sparkling smile at Dylan, who rolls his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a nice lunch and the food is as good as it always was. Mario and Dilly nearly stab each other in the hand with their forks going for the last bite of eggplant parmigiana, though Dilly gracefully concedes in the face of Mario’s puppy-dog eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cooch is even more reserved than usual. He hardly talks and Mario starts to angle away from him so he can just talk to Dylan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe eyes Cooch and makes an executive decision. He leans over to Dilly at his side. “Can you take them home? I’ve got to talk to Cooch.” Joe’s voice is low and even. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brenden tilts his head slightly. “Sure. Maybe you can remove the stick from his ass.” There’s a hint of laughter in his eyes as he slides his chair back. “Children,” he starts grandly, glaring when Gamby tosses a crumpled napkin at him. “I’m rescuing you from the old men,” he says, offended. “C’mon, let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario looks back at Joe, unsure until Joe nods reassuringly. “Go get Starbucks or something on the way home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, c’mon,” Dilly says, ushering Dylan and Mario in front of him hurriedly. “If you move fast enough, we don’t have to listen to their argument about who’s paying for lunch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly clicks his key fob until his car chirps. “Both of you in the back. I will not play favorites.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But if you did play favorites,” Dylan asks sweetly, sliding in behind the driver’s seat, “who would it be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly’s answer is instantaneous. “Hertl.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario can’t help but laugh at Dylan’s offended face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s side are you on anyway?” Dylan asks, sitting back to buckle himself in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not picking sides,” Mario says clearly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Smart,” Dilly says approvingly. He pulls out of the parking lot and turns on the music, some mid-eighties rock. Dylan tries to reach between the seats for the radio dial, but Dilly smacks his hand away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off, Gamby. This is why you’re at the kids’ table.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” Dylan responds easily, “and your old man music.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly laughs and just turns the music up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario doesn’t have a clue about where anything is yet, but Dylan notices that they’re not going in the right direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are we headed to downtown?” He sticks his head in between the front seats and stares at Dilly pointedly. “You said you’d take us home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t say when, did I?” Dilly says smoothly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So where are we going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gotta run an errand,” Dilly says, smiling in the rearview mirror. “I’ll take you home later. It’ll be fun, don’t worry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario’s not entirely on board with being kidnapped, especially when the airport comes into view. There’s a brief moment of madness where he wonders if this is going to turn into Brenden Dillon sending him back to Canada.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly pulls into the pickup lane and turns off the car. He digs out his phone and sends a text.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are we waiting for?” Dylan asks, prodding Dilly’s shoulder amicably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Joner’s back,” Dilly says, popping the lock on the trunk. He rolls down his window and waves energetically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin Jones walks over and sticks his head in the open window. “You’re too good to pay the parking fee and meet me inside, now?” There’s a smile on his face that belies the irritation in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t want to overwhelm the kids with your adoring fans,” Brenden teases, gesturing at Dylan and Mario. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario gives an awkward little wave and Dylan casually nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw,” Jones says, his posture shifting, softening. “You brought me rookies. Go put my stuff in the trunk while I say hi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What am I,” Dilly bitches, “the bellhop?” Still, he gets out of the car and starts moving the bags stacked on the sidewalk. There’s a veritable Jenga tower of luggage, tenuously perched on the curb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones slides into the front seat and twists around. “Hey, Gamby. How’s it going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan smiles. “‘S good. You missed Keaton saving Burnzie’s beard from going up in flames.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not sure I’m sorry about that. I did see your pictures in the group chat though,” Jones says appreciatively. He turns to Mario. “Hi, Martin Jones.” He reaches out to shake Mario’s hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario takes it and stammers “I know. I mean, I’m Mario. Ferraro.” He winces slightly, feeling stupid and tongue tied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good to meet you finally, Mario,” Martin says with a gentle smile. “Though, a word of advice.” Mario leans forward a little against the seatbelt, his hand still held in Martin’s. “If you let Brent Burns get too used to manhandling you, he will just pick you up all the time. You have to give the Wookie some boundaries.” There’s a twinkle in his eye and Mario smiles and nods in response. Martin squeezes his hand once and settles into the front seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you change the radio station?” Dylan asks,  leaning forward to hook his chin on the driver’s seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. Dilly making you put up with his godawful taste in music?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhmm. He promised to take us home, but then it turns out he’s a liar and he didn’t even let us pick the music.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly slides back into the driver’s seat and puts the car in gear. “Jesus, Jonesy, you bring all of Vancouver in your carry-on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you know you like flexing your muscles and showing off,” Martin says dismissively, patting Dilly’s leg. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly snorts as he navigates out of the airport. “Want me to flex and carry some groceries for you too? Your fridge is probably pretty empty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, I got grocery delivery scheduled for this afternoon. Just the basics, but it’ll do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you fuck with my music?” Dilly reaches down for the dial, but Martin blocks him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eyes on the road, buddy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is my car!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Road safety. Can’t look at the radio right now,” Martin says, smiling knowingly in the rearview mirror. “You’ve got precious cargo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You or them?” Dilly asks grumpily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both?” Martin shrugs. “Or the maple candy I grabbed for you before I left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly’s shoulders soften. “It’s gonna get all sticky and messy if we stop at Joe’s. If I’m being bribed, I should at least get it while it still looks right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin turns around, yanking at his seatbelt. “You guys mind if Dilly drops me off first? It’s a bit out of the way,” he says apologetically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario’s about to agree unconditionally, but Dylan pipes up instead. “Can we play Chel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, this is what you missed this summer? Getting your ass kicked in Chel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, it’s not my fault I got paired up with Melker in the last tournament,” Dylan protests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you want to continue your losing streak,” Martin says smugly, turning his back on Dylan, “who am I to stop you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Help me kick his ass,” Dylan hisses, elbowing Mario. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure?” Mario laughs. “I don’t think I’m that good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Dilly pulls in, he points out to Mario that his place is barely a block away. Mario makes a note in his phone, reasoning that it’s probably smart to know where a few teammates live. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario unbuckles his seatbelt and slides out. He walks around to the back, where Martin’s grabbing bags. “Can I help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. Grab my gear?” Martin points at the big duffle that must hold his pads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario lifts it out of Dilly’s trunk. It’s not particularly heavy, but it is a bit unwieldy. He follows Martin to his door, waiting for him to unlock it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can stick it over here,” Martin says over his shoulder, pointing to a bench in the hallway. “I’ll eventually move it to the rink. Hey, Dilly, do we have a practice set up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t know yet,” Dilly says from the doorway where he’s trying to turn a suitcase sideways to fit it in. “Text Mac and Burnzie. One of them probably knows when there’s rink time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Deller’s coming in in a couple days, I think. No,” Martin says quickly, “no, no, do not abandon that there for Gamby to trip over. That one goes in the bedroom, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly rolls his eyes, but he drags the suitcase past Martin, taking the backpack out of his hands as well as he heads deeper into the house. “I’m not unpacking for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank god,” Martin says under his breath. “I love being able to find literally anything ever again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan shows up in the doorway with his hands full. “I think this is everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gimme the grey bag and take the black one to the bedroom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan does as he’s told. Martin rummages in the bag in his hands. “You want something to drink?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Water would be great,” Mario says appreciatively. “You can just point me to the glasses.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s no trouble.” Martin sticks something from the bag into his hoodie pocket and then he leaves the bag on the floor tucked against the wall. He walks into the kitchen and opens a cupboard. Mario follows him, watching the way sunlight streams in and glints off the stainless steel appliances. It’s a nice place, though Mario’s a little too warm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chugs half the glass Martin hands him before he remembers his manners. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No problem. Man, it’s warm. Thermostat probably hasn’t kicked in yet.” Martin wanders off with his own glass to fiddle with the temperature until the A/C kicks in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here,” Martin says when Dilly walks back in. He chucks something at him and Dilly catches it with ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sweet.” Dilly smiles, pleased, as he hefts the little bag of candy in one hand. “Gamby’s already trying to get the game up and running. He’s threatening to make you play as the Ducks if you don’t get in there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin scoffs. “In my own home? That little shit.” He stalks off purposefully and Dilly motions for Mario to join them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they get into the media room, Mario sort of understands why Dylan wants to play here. The TV is huge and the couches look super comfy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room isn’t as bright as the rest of the place, but the lighting is pleasantly soft even where it’s dimmer. Dylan’s got a controller in each hand as he navigates the game menus, squinting slightly at the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gimme that,” Martin says firmly, grabbing one of them. He drops into the loveseat and crosses his legs neatly. Dilly sits next to him, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario grabs two spare controllers from the cubbies below the tv and offers one to Dilly. “Whose team are you on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jonesy, obviously.” He reaches out and Martin bumps his fist without even looking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come here,” Dylan says, yanking on Mario’s shirt. “They always play as a team. Even in beer pong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why ruin a winning formula?” Martin asks serenely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario settles on the couch next to Dylan. “Alright, let’s do this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t. They really, really don’t. By the time Martin and Dilly are done wiping the floor with them, Mario’s literally slid right off the couch to lie on the carpet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw,” Dilly says, scoring yet again. “We broke the rookie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin stares down at Mario’s despairing face and kicks lightly at his ankle. “C’mere.” He shoves at Dilly’s hip. “Trade with Mario.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Dilly looks highly offended.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re so good, you can make Gamby better,” Martin challenges him, pushing exactly the right buttons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly moves  over and sits on the floor between Dylan’s legs. “Fine. Pick a fuckin’ team, Gamby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Dylan scrolls through the teams, Martin insists on dragging Mario to actually sit back on the couch next to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here’s the deal,” Martin says quietly. “I’ll play goalie and maybe a little defense. You go score some goals.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, why not?” Mario sets his shoulders with determination. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it,”’ Martin says with a grin, elbowing him familiarly. “A little optimism and a little zen. I’ll teach you my goalie ways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s just because Martin’s good at playing goalie, or maybe it’s the way Martin’s relentlessly trash-talking Dilly every time Mario scores, but they kill it. It feels suddenly easy, in a way playing with Dylan decidedly did not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin’s cheering, dragging Mario into a side hug as they win, when Dilly holds up his phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jumbo’s calling. I’m gonna put it on speaker.” He sets it on the coffee table and Dylan leans over to see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Brenden. Are you dead?” Joe’s cheer sounds a little eerie, so Mario leans into Martin’s side as they listen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not dead, no,” Dilly says a little nervously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I assumed you’d have to be dead, see, because I got home and neither of the rookies were here and no one texted me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Dylan says quietly in the background.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe sighs. “Where are you guys?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jonesy got back in town,” Dilly explains steadily. “We picked him up at the airport and then Dylan wanted to play Chel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can come home now,” Dylan suggests, putting his controller down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no,” Joe says reassuringly. “No, you stay and have fun. I was just a little worried. Will you be home for dinner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan checks his watch. “Yeah, we’ll be home. I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Joe says, his usual warmth restored. “I’ll see you then. Dilly, no more disappearing acts with my rookie, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure thing.” The phone goes dead and Dilly exhales slowly. “Alright. Curfew for rookies, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly collects the controllers and carefully puts them away. Mario’s still leaning into Martin, somehow unwilling to separate. Martin looks down at him and squeezes his shoulders. “Jumbo’s not mad at you. Ask Gamby about it, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario nods, feeling a little foolish. “Thanks.” He makes a show of pulling away and standing up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome over here any time. Do you have a car here yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t even gone shopping for shorts, so no,” Mario laughs quietly. It breaks the tension.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well you can always text me to come pick you up or Uber over or whatever. In case you get bored with looking at Jumbo’s face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario smiles. “Okay. Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, let’s roll,” Dilly says, waving them out. “I’m taking you home before Jumbo decides to smother me with his beard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waves them towards the car, lingering for a moment to ask Martin, “You want me to grab some takeout on my way back from Jumbo’s?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario doesn’t know what the answer is, because Dylan takes off at a sprint for the passenger seat and Mario gets distracted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Dilly shouts. “What’d I say about rookies in the back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That I can do whatever I want because you’re in trouble?” Dylan looks perfectly smug when Dilly just rolls his eyes and goes around the car. Mario’s happy to sit in the back. It’s not like Dilly’s car is so small that Mario doesn’t have leg room, even with Dylan stretching out in the front.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Dilly there, Mario doesn’t quite have the guts to ask if Jumbo’s gonna be pissed when they get home. He figures he’ll just hang back and disappear into the guest bedroom if necessary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly drops them at the curb, apparently deciding that discretion is the better part of valor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gamby digs out his key and unlocks the door, Mario silently shadowing him. The house smells good, something cooking in the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Joe calls from the kitchen while they’re taking their shoes off and sticking them in the little wooden rack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan heads towards the kitchen as soon as he’s tucked his shoes away. “Hey, we’re back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mario with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario pokes his head around the corner. “I’m here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you take over stirring this for a moment?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario takes a minute to answer because Joe is shirtless, in shorts and a haphazardly tied apron. “Uh, yeah, sure. Do I need to do anything with it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just stir regularly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario peers into the pot as he takes up the wooden spoon. It looks like some kind of red sauce and it smells really good. Joe unfolds his apron and nods at Dylan to follow him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario stirs the sauce, but all his attention is on the warped shadows flowing from the hallway. It’s like watching through a funhouse mirror as he sees Dylan’s ducked head and Joe’s outstretched arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feeling guilty, he abandons the sauce for a moment to slink close enough to hear them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Joe says lowly. “I was just worried about you. I know you’ll text me next time. I trust you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan says something inarticulate and their shadows blend together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario goes back to stirring the sauce,  feeling like he’s intruded on something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they come back in, Mario glances at Dylan out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t look upset. Mario turns back to the sauce.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dinner is really good, enough that Mario asks if Joe will share his recipe. He likes making food for himself and he’s definitely missing his mom’s cooking. He got a little spoiled, coming home from college and getting to eat home cooking whenever he wanted. There are perks to being the baby of the family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario volunteers to help wash the dishes after dinner and Dylan helps put away the leftovers in the fridge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come hang out in my room,” Dylan says, closing the fridge on the last stack of tupperware. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Let me grab my laptop. I want to get some work done tonight.” Mario goes to find his laptop and charger from the guest room. Upstairs, it takes him a minute to find Dylan’s room. Jumbo really does have a lot of bedrooms in his house. Dylan’s lounging on his bed with a Nintendo DS. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What work do you have?” Dylan asks, sitting up. “You can put your laptop on the desk if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a Youtube channel,” Mario admits, a little nervous. “I do tech reviews and stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh cool,” Dylan says distractedly. “Are you gonna keep doing it during the season or is it your summer thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I hope I can do it during the season. I don’t really know if I’ll have the time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I guess you’re lucky to be drafted here, if you like technology.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m thinking of trying to tour the Facebook campus at some point. What are you playing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan shows him the screen a little sheepishly. “Nintendogs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario grins. “Fuckin’ classic.” Mario brings up his video planning notes and gets lost in that for a little while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you nervous?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario is pulled out of his concentration, looking over to find Dylan has rolled to the edge of the bed. “Nervous?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About joining the team. Adoption. You know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Mario says honestly, spinning around in the desk chair. “Should I be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, that’s why I asked. I’m not allowed to give you details, but I just wanted you to know that whatever other teams do, the Sharks are really strict about making sure that rookies get taken care of. You can’t ask about adoption, but you can ask any of us about what it’s like to be living with a vet who’s responsible for you,” Dylan says reassuringly. “Just...maybe...don’t ask Timo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pavelski was his mentor. Bad enough to lose the guy looking out for you, but Timo found out from Twitter. He’s not planning to get adopted again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario whistles quietly. “Jesus. Okay, yeah I won’t ask him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But ask anyone else. It’s really good. Like, I love living here with Jumbo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario doesn’t ask what will happen if Jumbo doesn’t re-sign. He, personally, can’t see Jumbo not playing, but that doesn’t really mean anything to a GM. “He seems really great,” Mario says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s actually really happy to have you here too. I know you can’t tell, but he kind of lives for having his house full. He was all mopey when Kevin moved his stuff out a couple weeks ago and he’s cheered up a lot with you around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario can feel his cheeks pinking. “Oh. That’s nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan grins at him and then pats the comforter next to him. “Come look at my Nintendogs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario laughs and moves over to the bed agreeably. They end up talking late and when Mario wakes up in the morning, they’re both still mostly sideways on the bed, but there’s a blanket thrown over them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over the next few days, more of the Europeans come back into town. Joe sends Mario off with Erik, after he extracts a promise of sensible pants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deller comes over once he’s unpacked and shows them some of the recordings he made with his dad. It sounds great, as always, and Deller’s happy to pass that message back to his dad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy and Mario get caught in a loop of excited emoting at each other which is too cute for Joe to break up. Mario’s full of energy and when Tommy and Simmer take him out to a club, Joe knows the rookie will have tons of fun. He trusts Simmer to turn his murder-eyes towards any bad decisions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bunch of the Cuda come back too, so Joe’s backyard and living room and kitchen are absolutely teeming with teenagers. Vieler and Sumo take half the team up to SF for a day, so Joe is treated to an hourly pictorial update. He saves a couple of the ones of Gamby and Mario out on the wharf because they’re really nicely framed against the ocean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie and Cooch text him about ice time, so he commits himself and Gamby to showing up. When he sees Mario, he asks, “You want to join us for a skate? Some of the guys are gonna play.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah! I’d love to.” Mario bounces on his toes, like he’s ready to go instantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, up early tomorrow then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario gets up before his alarm and checks all his gear. He’s running a little low on stick tape, but that’s the easiest thing to replace. He drags his bag to the foyer and leaves it there so he can make breakfast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s nervous but excited. It’s his first time playing with the Sharks, though it’s only a partial team that’s coming today. Couture had some media obligations and Dilly was taking a few of the Cuda guys down the coast for the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes a scrambled egg and eats most of it. He ends up in the living room, watching videos on Youtube until the others are ready to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready?” Joe leans over the back of the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Mario says hastily, rolling off the couch. “Let’s go.” He hurries out the door, itching to be back on the ice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The practice rink has a decent locker room to change in and they’re not the first ones in. Burnzie grins, tongue poking out between his teeth. “Finally. Dibs on Mario.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not calling dibs,” Erik says with some dignity as he drags on his jersey. “Captain’s pick. Much fairer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’re the captains?” Dylan asks, digging through his bag. Mario copies him and sets up next to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me,” Burnzie says decisively. “And Deller.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m what?” Deller asks, walking in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Captain. You get to pick your team,” Dylan explains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oooh, neat.” Deller does an excited little wiggle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario pulls his jersey on, wishing his gear stood out a little bit less. The red and white from UMass does not at all match everyone else in black or teal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels somewhat better when some of the Cuda guys pull on European jerseys and no one says a word. They’re a hodge-podge mix, but it works.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie gets his way and puts Mario on his team, though he sensibly picks Martin Jones first. He takes Goody and Tomas, who look delighted to be chosen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jumbo boos from the undrafted section until Deller picks him, sticking his tongue out at Burnzie childishly. Deller was threatening to make a goalie-only team. He still gets a goalie majority by picking Korenar, who Mario hasn’t met yet. He seems quiet, settled in his gear. Mario’s shifting from skate to skate, like he can shake out the nerves. Gamby gets put on the other team, along with Sumo and Timo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all troop down the hall together, helmets in hand. It’s fun to step down onto the ice surface. He wouldn’t have come this far if he didn’t love the feeling of the ice under his skates and this rink is nice. Burnzie smacks him in the shins lovingly with his stick as they all move to stretch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The teams are well matched and the puck doesn’t stay in anyone’s hands for long. Mario manages to check Erik off the puck, but Erik yelling, “FUCK,” distracts him enough that Simmer is able to take the puck back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tomas steals the puck and dekes around Mac and passes it to Letty, who shoots it directly into Deller’s pads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they’re reaching the end of their ice time, they’re tied 6-6. Mario tries to scrape the tape on his stick back into position, but it’s still a little torn and messy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gamby takes the faceoff against Goody, his steady stance unable to help him win it out of Goody’s reach. Goody shoves it across to Tomas who shoots it perfectly behind Dell’s ear before he’s able to slide all the way over in his crease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario’s the closest to the far goal, so he makes a run at Jonesy to hug him. Jonesy catches him pretty easily and taps his blocker against Mario’s side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hell yeah,” Mario cheers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A heavy weight slams into his back, sliding them all backwards. “That’s it, Jonesy!” Burnzie reaches around Mario to pat at Jonesy’s helmet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t even practice,” Martin says quietly, rolling his eyes as he hugs Mario and then shoves them both gently back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, c’mon,” Goody says, checking Letty cheerfully. “Enjoy making Jumbo into a giant cranky baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure enough, when Mario looks across the ice, Joe’s leaning on his stick and frowning at them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin laughs a little at that. “I’ll take him out to lunch, see if that helps him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all shuffle off the ice together, bumping and shoving. It’s fun and Mario feels like he could just float away from how happy he feels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s still bouncing on his toes in the locker room, showered and changed. A hand settles firmly on his shoulder, bringing him back to earth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You coming with us to lunch?” Martin smiles a little crooked smile at him. “You can ride with me if you want. Jumbo’s gonna be along in a little bit if you want to wait, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario considers for a moment and then shrugs. “Where are we going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where do you want to go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know a place that does good omelets? Feels...brunch-y.” It’s early in the day still and after practice, a cheesy omelet with every vegetable and meat that fits would go a long way. He’s starving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know a place. I’ll text Joe. You coming with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.” Mario smiles and follows him out the door. “Anyone else coming?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, just the three of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario jogs ahead a little just to open the door for Martin, solicitous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are a couple fans near the fence and they stop to say hi. Mario would like to hug them all, with their earnest smiles. While Martin is signing a man’s hat, Mario is listening intently to a knee-high child who’s explaining why Brent Burns is the best ever. Mario punctuates the kid’s explanations with lots of “Wow!” and “I know, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin lingers, waits until Mario’s finally done. Goody comes out behind them and there’s a shift as the crowd notices him. Mario follows him to the car, then, still smiling back at the fans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin elbows him gently. “Collecting pint-sized fans?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario makes a face. “It’d be cool to be someone’s favorite someday. Someone other than my mom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She coming to any of the preseason games?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I think the whole family will come out. Maybe I can get my sister to put my nephew in a Sharks jersey,” he says optimistically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario doesn’t take out his phone to show Martin pictures, but he wants to. His nephew is the fucking best. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Martin says, pulling out of the lot. “How’s living with Jumbo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great,” Mario says, sprawled out in the passenger seat. “He’s been so helpful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, he loves looking out for people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know I’ll probably spend some time with the Cuda, but I appreciate Joe letting me stay with him until everything gets settled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Martin says. “You never know. Maybe you’re the new Wookie Whisperer. Or,” Martin says with a laugh, “you can just take my job of yelling ‘back’ every time Burnzie tries to drift out of position.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’d yell at him unless you let me borrow your gear. I’d have to be brave or stupid, and I think several inches of padding would make me braver.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ever play goalie?” Martin asks the question with real interest, glancing over at Mario. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not seriously. But you know, as a kid, sometimes they make you rotate. I’m definitely shit as a center, but I wasn’t the worst goalie on the team. Never really shifted from the blue line after that though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t like it enough to be a goalie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t mind shots at my shinpads, but I’m very happy not having pucks come near my face.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonesy laughs at that, pulling into a parking spot. “Fair enough. C’mon. Let’s see if there’s a free table.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s busy inside, but there are still empty tables, especially out on the patio. The crowd seems to skew elderly, but there are families interspersed. The walls are a bright yellow and Mario declares, “I love it,” looking up and around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You haven’t even eaten the food yet,” Martin points out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just nice,” Mario says, a little defensively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin smiles softly. “It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They get seated relatively easily, which Mario is quick to ask about. “Is it the Sharks thing or magical goalie powers?” He peeks over his menu at Martin, who’s watching the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither,” Martin says with a shrug. “I’m just a regular.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario puts his menu down. “So what’s good? What should I get?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you wanted an omelet, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario nods. “I’m not picky.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The California Spicy Veggie and the Popeye are both good. Make sure you ask for the sour cream on the side, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Popeye?” Mario skims the menu until he finds it. It does have a thematically appropriate amount of spinach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The waitress pops up and asks, “What can I get you to drink?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sunrise smoothie for me,” Martin says and then nods over to Mario expectantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, me too.” The waitress bustles  off and Mario grins at Martin’s curious look. “Just gonna trust your lead. Didn’t sound like an all-kale smoothie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that’s where you draw the line?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, because I have tastebuds. And I’m not insane.” Mario tucks his legs under the chair rungs and leans his elbows on the heavy wooden table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Better run if you see Burnzie with a blender then,” Martin says, arranging the silverware next to his plate in neat lines. “He would love to feed you kale until you turn green.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that what happens to the rookies he adopts?” Mario asks, unable to contain his curiosity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Martin says a bit regretfully. “Not gonna answer adoption questions. You know the drill.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I knew it, I wouldn’t ask,” Mario says, though without rancor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be smart.” Martin lowers his voice carefully. “Don’t ask a vet, dumbass. Ask a rookie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario’s about to say something in response, but Martin’s posture shifts slightly. “Hey, Jumbo. We were just about to order. You need a minute with the menu?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, I know what I’m doing.” Jumbo drags a chair out and sits down, angling his legs to the side slightly so he has more room. He smiles across the room and raises his hand slightly to get the waitress’ attention. She hurries over, notepad and pen in hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi, what can I get you today?” She practically beams at Jumbo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I get a black coffee?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. Anything to eat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what do you recommend?” Mario can’t quite pinpoint what Jumbo is doing, but there’s something in the way he angles his shoulders and the way he’s casually buttoned his shirt that makes it seem like there’s nothing he’d like better than to sit and listen to a waitress list specials. Mario sort of feels like he should take notes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Depends! You want protein or you want to feed a sweet tooth?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I do both?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How about some banana pecan buckwheat pancakes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfect.” Jumbo bestows a smile on her and it seems to take her a long minute to remember that anyone else exists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll have the South of the Border,  sour cream on the side,” Martin says wryly, clearly used to this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The waitress sort of shakes herself and turns to Mario. “And you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“California Spicy Veggie omelet, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure thing! It’ll be right up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as she leaves, Mario can’t hold back the giggles anymore and Martin joins in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what’s quite so funny,” Joe says, though his eyes crinkle with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know what you’re doing</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Martin says mockingly, punching Jumbo’s shoulder. “Next time, save that routine for after I’ve actually ordered. Who knows what that poor girl wrote down after you did your little act.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s no act,” Jumbo says smugly. “I’m naturally appealing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin makes eye contact with Mario for just a moment and then they’re both laughing helplessly again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’ve mostly contained themselves by the time the food arrives, piping hot. Mario takes a sip of his smoothie and is pleasantly surprised by the faint taste of mango. There’s a lot of fruit flavors, but he can only really pick out mango and orange. It’s really good, though it’s mostly waking up his hunger with a vengeance. He probably should have had more breakfast before they hit the ice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good?” Martin asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Definitely.” Mario takes another sip and then picks up his fork to go at the omelet. It’s huge, overflowing with veggies and well doused in salsa. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could you grab napkins?” Martin asks. He points at the empty metal napkin holder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure!” Mario sets down his fork and slides out from the table. “Anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, that’s it. Thanks!” Martin smiles at him as he hurries off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a little line near the cash register, so it might take Mario a moment to actually catch someone's attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin leaves his breakfast burrito alone for the moment and drinks his smoothie. “He’s eager, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s managed to shame Gamby into volunteering to clean the gutters,” Joe says with a laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow, that’s impressive. Dilly likes him a lot," Martin offers. "He hopes he gets a decent shot at the big leagues this year. Cooch seems to like him too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When’d you talk to Cooch?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Couple days ago. He’s been a bit much lately, acting like Daddy got traded all over again,” Martin says flippantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We had lunch with him when Mario came into town,” Joe says, more serious than the sentence warrants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d that go?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cooch begged me to stay,” Joe says very quietly. He doesn’t glance at Jonesy once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’d you tell him?” Jonesy stays relaxed, playing with the straw in his drink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Told him it wasn’t up to him. Love him, but this isn’t about him. Isn’t about the team.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonesy hums around his straw, taking a sip. “Whatever you decide, you’re still one of us. You fucking became a citizen, so I don’t see you skipping town that fast.” Joe laughs a little at that because it’s true and Jonesy’s looking sideways at him with a quirk in his mouth. “If we know where you live, you can’t get rid of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not trying to get rid of you,” Joe says. “Though, if you could train Gamby to not leave his shoes where I’ll trip and die, that’d be neat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonesy’s tone turns more somber. “The boys know, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I warned them. They’ve been...good,” Joe starts and then cuts himself off because Mario’s back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got the napkins,” he says with a little wave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Joe says with a smile, taking the stack from Mario and setting it in the middle of the table. “Better eat before your food gets cold.” Joe skims his fork through the ramekin of whipped cream and stabs a large forkful of banana and pancake. It’s excellent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario swallows his first bite of the omelette and then takes a gulp of his smoothie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You good?” Martin asks, concerned. Mario’s eyes are watering slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spicy,” Mario says. Martin reaches for his plate, about to offer a trade, but Mario hugs his plate closer. “So fucking good, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin laughs. “Alright. You want some water to go with that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably,” Mario says, and then goes right back to shoving the food in his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin nods at Joe. “Use your ‘appeal’ for good and ask for some water.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe smiles at the nearest waitress until she comes over. Joe politely asks, “Can you bring me a glass of water?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles and comes back at top speed with a fresh glass and a pitcher of ice water. Mario really, really feels like he should be taking notes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he keeps eating like it’s a competition. It means he finishes well before the other two, so he can just sit back and get comfy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Getting sleepy?” Joe asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Mario says. “I’ll just nap when we get home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good to have a schedule,” Martin says. “Makes it easier to transition into the season.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They finish up and pay, walking out into the sun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gosh, I love this weather,” Mario says, squinting upward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait until you can wear shorts in January,” Martin says. “It’s a Canadian dream.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Man, that sounds incredible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll enjoy it. Alright, let me know if you guys are going to go skate soon,” Martin says. “Good practice today.” He pats Mario on the shoulder and fishes out his car keys.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was fun,” Mario says, smiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe next time you’ll be brave enough to yell at Burnzie for me,” Martin says teasingly. “Go enjoy your nap.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario laughs and nods, following Jumbo to his car. He feels warm, inside and out.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm posting this hella late at night and 90% of my attention today was on baking a cake, so if there are any glaring errors, please let me know.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Daydreams and Nightmares</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I was 100% going to make this the last chapter but it would have been over 17000 words and I've been informed that is LONG so I have divided it. I expect the final part to be posted tomorrow!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Joe drags the boys to the nearest empty field at one of the local high schools so they can run the bleachers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s going to be a hot day, so it’s good that they got started early. No one else is there; for a long time, the only sounds are their running shoes on the stairs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the end of a set, Dylan leans on the bottom railing and complains, “I’m done, I'm out, no more.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on,” Mario says,  jogging in place, “one more. You’re not going to let Jumbo outrun you, are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m good to go,” Joe offers, flexing his knees just to test them. He feels good, feels loose in the rising heat. There’s something nice about the rhythm of this kind of exercise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, okay,” Dylan says, and begrudgingly brings up the rear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One more is not one more, simply because Mario wants to keep going and it is so very hard to look at his hopeful face and say no. Finally, Dylan just sits down and refuses to get back up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reluctantly, Joe joins him, saying, “I’m done. I’m gonna cool down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Mario says, using the hem of his t-shirt to wipe off his face. With his goofy headband holding back his curls, he looks like he just stepped out of some 80s workout video; Joe finds that whole visual privately amusing. “I’m gonna do one more and then I’ll join you.” He trots off, looking decidedly unbothered by the heat or any tiredness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dylan tilts backwards abruptly and sprawls out on the ground. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Dylan wheezes. “I changed my mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe waits for him to explain, but he just keeps panting. Joe prods him with the toe of his sneaker. “What did you change your mind about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He can’t stay. Can’t stay with us,” Dylan says breathlessly, swatting Joe’s foot away irritably. “You two together are a goddamn monster, you’re gonna kill me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe laughs in surprise, breaking his stretch. “Maybe it’s good for you,” he teases.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How can it be good when I’m dead?” Dylan moans, rolling into his front.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get off the ground, Gamby, and cool down.” Joe takes a sip from his water bottle and waits for Dylan to quit flopping around dramatically.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario jogs back to them, still looking far too put together. He’s sweaty, a little out of breath, but he’s grinning like there’s nothing he likes better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stands there and stretches his hamstrings, carefully balanced. Joe likes his work ethic, can tell already that he’s got the drive to go far.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario leans down and grabs Dylan’s outstretched arms from where they’re splayed on the hot concrete. “Come on,” he says coaxingly. “If you finish your cool down, we’ll be all done. We can go get lunch and enjoy this weather.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a demon,” Dylan groans, but he lets Mario haul him up and follows him through the cool down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe enjoys having people in his house. Mario’s a good house guest and he gets along well with Dylan. To be fair,  Joe hasn’t seen him get along poorly with anyone yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe comes downstairs at one point to grab a snack and catches Dylan and Mario hanging out in the living room. They’re elbowing each other and shoving as they play some game on the big TV. It makes them both look younger, tugging at Joe’s heart for just a moment. He leaves them there and goes into the kitchen. It’s nice to see Dylan a little more relaxed. He can be so serious, so single-minded. Perhaps Mario’s easy cheerfulness will let Dylan balance his ambition with an ability to take a break once in fucking while. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kevin and Dylan were a good match for the short time that they were both living in Joe’s house. Joe knows that rookies growing up is a good thing, but he likes having his team underfoot. He can be proud of Kevin’s new place and miss him all the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe doesn’t feel great about the uncertainty he’s left his rookies stewing in, but they made the choice. He had a serious talk with them within a few days of their locker clean out. He fucking loves hockey, but he didn’t know if his body would be ready for another season, whether the Sharks would want him, or even whether they could afford to pay him anything. He’s not so naive as to forget that he’s nearly geriatric for a hockey player and even if he has a good relationship with ownership, they might not want him even on league-min. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kevin and Dylan both made the decision in June that they would stay with him, fully understanding the situation. If he doesn’t end up on the team, they’ll be latecomers to the pool of adoptable rookies. Guys who have already decided on who they want will be loath to change their minds and it’s unlikely that they’ll get adopted together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’ve been patient with him, never pressing him for details. Joe doesn’t know if it’s out of respect for his decision or fear of the truth. Regardless, he has no answers for them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario gets invited to a lot of events before training camp. It’s a good way to get to know the core guys on the NHL and AHL rosters, a good way to get to know his way around town, and a very good way to get fed constantly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Burnzie invites all the defensemen over for a BBQ at Eddie’s place, which seems a little weird. However, when he shows up, Burnzie is fully in charge and Eddie looks perfectly happy with that arrangement. The guys are scattered around the yard, little semi-circles around a tepid game of beer pong and the barbecue. Mario has met a few of them already, but Trevor Carrick is basically as new as he is. He seems like a nice guy, uncomplicated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario says hi to Simmer, who breaks his thousand-yard-stare to grin at him. Simmer introduces him to a few of the other guys on the Barracuda. Mario likes them, likes that they all seem happy here in San Jose. It bodes well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie releases his dogs into the yard, which causes great chaos, but Mario’s delighted to just sit on the grass with Middsy and let the dogs love them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Mario gets tired of petting the dogs and letting them lick him to death, he’s hungry. He grabs a plate of food and settles by the grill in a lawn chair. Trevor and Burnzie are having an in-depth conversation about making good brisket. They have a lot of opinions on how to smoke it, how long to smoke it, and what to eat it with. Mario just sits and listens while they debate back and forth on the merits of different wood chunks. Mario has zero opinions on it, but it’s pleasant to listen to all the same. It reminds him of being home, conversations going twelve different ways around him, no matter what.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario stands up when he’s done eating and goes to peer at whatever Burnzie is cooking on the grill now. He edges around the smoky side to stand at Trevor’s elbow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Trevor says suddenly, glancing at Mario. “This whole conversation is probably boring for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Mario says, grinning a little sheepishly. “I don’t understand it all, but it’s cool. I’m not a very good cook. Actually, I’m really bad, but I want to get better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Burnzie says, abandoning the grill for a minute to pinch at Mario’s side. “We gotta get you more protein.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario yelps and swats at Burnzie, but he can’t stop grinning. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ooh,” Burnzie says, looking far too excited. “You can be the judge!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What am I judging?” Mario is gonna agree anyway, but details would be great.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Trev and I can make our own recipes and you can decide which one is better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What if I can’t decide?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then you’ll still have eaten some fuckin’ protein,” Burnzie says emphaticallly, pointing with his meat tongs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario laughs. “Sure, okay. Just tell me when.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Burnzie approvingly claps him on the back so hard Mario almost stumbles, but Trevor manages to grab his shirt and keep him on his feet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on,” Trevor says, suppressing a laugh. “Let’s get you away from the flames before you get barbecued too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They end up sitting with a few other guys. The two Russians introduce themselves and Mario thinks both their names start with a K, but he couldn’t even begin to pronounce them correctly. The Russians don’t say much to anyone and Mario doesn’t actually know how much English they even speak, but Nick is friendly. The conversation turns to adoption and Mario’s ears prick up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll only have a year,” Nick tells Trevor. “Sharks graduate rookies after 26.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Probably for the best,” Trevor says, leaning back comfortably. “I would have been on my own anyway this year. I was hoping, with the trade, that things wouldn’t be too different. Anything weird with their adoptions?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nick shrugs. “I haven’t been on any other team. I know most teams don’t adopt their AHL prospects, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All of us?” one of the Russians asks stiltedly, and now Mario feels really bad that he doesn’t remember either of their names. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Nick says. “They’ll give you guys more details on adoption day, but literally everyone gets assigned. It’s why the Sharks usually have more than one rookie per veteran. I don’t actually know how they schedule that or anything. If they had a rookie the year before, they’ll usually keep their guy, though. I’ve never seen anyone request a new placement here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They all mull over that silently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario opens his mouth and then closes it again. “Has anyone,” he starts nervously, unsure if he even wants an answer. “Are there people who don’t get chosen?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nick grimaces. “Yeah, sometimes. I’ve only been here a few years, but I’ve seen at least one. He refused a specific placement, so he ended up on the Captain’s Roster for the year. I won’t name names, but I think it was part of the reason he struggled a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None of them have anything to say to that and it sours the mood significantly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll be fine,” Nick says hastily, trying for reassuring, but missing by a mile. “Just remember that your options aren’t limitless.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario just hopes he’ll have any options at all. He can’t imagine anything worse than being the one guy who doesn’t get picked out of a combined NHL and AHL roster. Just sitting there in his captain’s house, staring at the plain walls of an empty room, waiting forever. The thought makes him sick and he stands abruptly. “I’m gonna go grab something to drink. Anyone else want something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They all decline politely and Mario walks over to the cooler alone. The icy water makes him shiver a little and he decides to leave it. Instead, he goes to sit next to Eddie. Eddie doesn’t say anything, but he whistles Kelly over and points her at Mario.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Say hi, Kelly!” Kelly, apparently well-trained, happily plops her head into Mario’s lap and looks up at him beseechingly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario rests a hand on her head, slowly rubbing over one soft ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hug the dog, kid,” Eddie says, not even looking in Mario’s direction. Kelly helpfully puts her front paws up on Mario’s knees and Mario obediently hugs her. She licks at the side of his head and he can feel the breath he was holding release in a soft laugh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Take your time,” Eddie advises quietly. “You’re alright.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario stays there, letting Kelly bully her way into his lap and nose wetly at his ear. Eddie gives him a faintly approving smile for a moment and Mario hides his face in Kelly’s fur. The cold feeling in the pit of his stomach eases with Kelly pinning him down. She’s solid and happy and she’s certainly not worried. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, all the dogs were shelter dogs?” Eddie says, not really looking for a response. “They weren’t all adopted together, but they’re family now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a clumsy metaphor, but Mario catches his drift. He makes eye contact with Eddie just long enough to see Eddie smile awkwardly. “That’s nice,” Mario says, really meaning it. He hugs Kelly again and lets her warmth seep into his bones.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mario’s alone in a whitewashed room, small and bright. He can’t see any source of light, but it’s almost blinding. He’s waiting for them. They’ll take him home. Someone will choose him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s a door across the room, pale and unassuming. He walks towards it, searching. He runs, the air rushing past him icily, but he never gets any closer. He just knows that beyond the door it’s warm and safe. They’re waiting for him. He has to show them he won’t be late. He’s reliable. He strains, trying to close the long span between him and the doorknob. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Burnzie walks through the door and Mario stops running for a moment, so relieved. Burnzie looks him up and down and scoffs. He slams the door behind himself and Mario looks down at himself in horror.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s naked, frozen in place. He can’t even cover himself as Joe and Eddie and Simmer burst in, their laughter ringing in his ears. He can feel himself shiver, goosebumps rising violently. Martin and Middsy speak, their voices distorted and distant. “Useless. Disappointing. Pathetic.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He backs away, shaking. There’s nowhere to hide. Every flaw is illuminated in the searing white light.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes up hyperventilating. His blankets are all on the floor and he feels like he’s a block of ice. He sits up, pulls his knees to his chest. He tries to slow his breaths, clamps his hands around his legs like that will stop them trembling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s unsettled, unnerved. At this rate, he’ll have a heart attack before the adoption ever happens. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks at his phone briefly, wincing at the bright light. It’s barely four am, but he’s not going to be able to sleep. No one else on this coast is going to be awake now, so he just texts his sister. She’ll respond in a little while, whenever she wakes up. He leaves his phone on the nightstand, unable to hold it when his hands are still shaky.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He puts on sweatpants and socks in the dark, focusing very hard on the feeling of the fabric under his fingertips. He drags his covers off the floor, wrapping the thick blanket around himself like a cape.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the living room, he curls into one of the corners of the couch and turns the TV on with no sound. There are always shitty HGTV shows on, no matter what hour of the day it is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sits there, bundled up, only half-processing the show. It’s something about historic homes and renovation. When he glances at the window, he can see it’s still dark out. He wishes the silence felt less like a weight on his chest. He misses bits of the show, zoning in and out. Another episode starts, but it’s no different in any tangible way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t seem to get warm. It was only a nightmare. Just a dream. No matter what he tells himself, the fear of being unwanted cannot be reasoned with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The creak of the stairs makes him turn, too fast. Joe looks surprised to see him, but he nods politely and disappears into the kitchen. Joe’s quiet as he moves around, perhaps born of long practice. If this is when he usually gets up, he’s never woken Mario.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario’s surprised when Joe sits down on the other end of the couch, the soft clink of a mug on a coaster over on the side table. “Sorry,” Mario murmurs. “I can go.” Maybe this is part of Joe’s morning routine. Maybe he has something he’d rather watch. Mario offers him the remote.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go where?” Joe’s voice is steady and even, despite the quizzical look in his eyes. He shakes his head. “Come here.” He pats the cushion next to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario slides over awkwardly, still wrapped in his covers.  He keeps his legs tucked under himself, still too cold to unfurl. Joe drags the throw off the back of the couch and drapes it over both of their laps. He hands Mario a mug. “Here you go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario lifts it up and sniffs it. Hot cocoa. He takes a small sip. It’s not too sweet and it’s warm. There’s a hint of cinnamon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe stretches his arm out behind Mario’s head. “What are we watching?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dunno,” Mario confesses, cradling the warm mug close to his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe hums and deliberately relaxes back into the couch, gently dragging Mario into his side. Mario can smell the faint hint of coffee when Joe takes a drag from his mug. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario finishes his cocoa before it goes cold. They watch carpenters sand down a tabletop together. Joe carefully takes the empty mug from where it’s loosely held in his hands and sets it aside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario can feel Joe’s slow, steady breaths in the shifting of his ribcage. It’s not oppressively quiet now, not when he can hear Joe drinking his coffee. They’re pressed together, hip to knee, and Mario can feel the line of heat through both of their thin sweats. Joe’s hand on his shoulder keeps his blankets in place, keeps him all wrapped up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes up at a disorienting angle. There’s a book startlingly close to his face and when he blinks and rubs at his eyes, Joe’s smile comes into view.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s halfway across Joe’s lap, staring up at the ceiling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Joe says, looking pleased. “Good morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” Mario mutters and levers himself up. “I’m so sorry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” Joe has a dreadful, bland expression on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you and trap you. Jesus, how long was I out?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Few hours,” Joe says pleasantly, reaching out and patting Mario’s shoulder. “Gave me lots of time to get through a few chapters.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario rubs at his eyes. He realizes he’s far too warm and unpeels his blanket cocoon. “Thanks for letting me sleep.” He shakes his head and sits properly on the couch. He can’t believe he fell asleep like a toddler at a New Year’s Eve party. On a future Hall of Famer’s lap. He’ll have to join the Barracuda now, because he’ll be too embarrassed to look anyone in the eyes when this gets out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You looked like you needed it.” Joe stands and stretches and heads towards the kitchen with his mug. With two mugs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you give me hot chocolate?” There’s a phantom sweetness in his mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yep!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario can’t believe that part wasn’t some bizarre dream. He takes off his socks and rolls them into a ball. His neck and back don’t hurt like he would have expected from sleeping on the couch, but he twists gently just to loosen up a little. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe comes back with two mugs. “Coffee?” The question is clearly rhetorical because he hands Mario a mug without waiting for an answer. It’s good, fresh and hot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was there a reason you were haunting the sofa at five in the morning?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Haunting?” Mario evades, choosing to pick on Joe’s words choice. He stares down at his coffee, carefully noting how it’s exactly the shade he likes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or being haunted.” Joe shrugs. “Looked like you’d seen a ghost.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just...bad dreams. Couldn’t sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something stressing you out?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, it’s just a dream.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe makes a quiet, disbelieving noise. “Well, next time just come wake me up. I’ll keep you company.” He squeezes the back of Mario’s neck and smiles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario nods agreeably, a polite and noncommittal lie. He’d rather walk all the way back home in the middle of December snowstorm than wake Jumbo Joe Thornton up because he had a bad dream. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure. I’m gonna make...something for breakfast. Actually, I have no clue what’s in the fridge right now. Whenever you get out, though, there’ll be food.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario makes his escape with whatever scraps of dignity he has left. He drains the coffee mug, abandons it on the bathroom counter, and sticks his face under the shower spray until he can hardly remember any dreams at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Some of the guys want to marathon the Rambo movies before the new one comes out in a few weeks, and somehow Joe gets volunteered as the host. Dylan prods Mario into setting up the movie, exaggeratedly crowns him the Tech King. There’s something weird going on there, Dylan grinning while Mario gets him in a headlock and tells him to shut up, but Joe deliberately ignores it. He has other things to worry about, like whether he has to go find camp chairs in the garage or whether the dining room chairs will be enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guys trickle in slowly, carrying beer and snacks. Sumo brings some candy that Joe doesn’t recognize, but Simmer says something excitedly the instant he sees it. Goody helps Mario drag more chairs into the living room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dylan decided to go out for the evening, helping Mac play tour guide for a couple of the newer players. Joe thinks both the potential AHL backups are in town and so is the new Russian guy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe takes over making the popcorn because he doesn’t quite trust anyone else to do it without setting off his smoke detector. He makes a big batch, but he knows it’ll be gone in five minutes anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Joe gets into the living room, popcorn bowl balanced on one hip, Sumo instantly tattles. He’s sitting on the coffee table, cross-legged, when he says loudly, “Tomáš is trying to kill Mario with his ass.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a flutter of laughter from where Dilly and Middsy are sitting; when Joe looks around the coffee table, Tomáš is indeed sitting on top of Mario. Mario does not seem upset about this, but Joe still has to ask the question, sighing as he walks over to stare down at Tomáš. “Why are you crushing the kid?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He took my snack,” Tomáš says, beaming up at him and showing off his bowl of grapes. “I took it back. Now we are sharing.” He punctuates this by leaning over to feed Mario a grape. Mario’s hands are tucked under his chin and he makes no move to take the grape, just opening his mouth like a little bird. Tomáš pops the grape in and then takes one himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh well,” Joe says dryly, “if that’s all.” Tomáš sharing food is actually a good sign, given how fucking much food he just inhales. “Mario. Hey.” He waits until Mario twists his head to the other side to try and make eye contact. “Tap out if you can’t breathe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario just settles his head back down. “I want more grapes. Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tomáš obliges. “See?” He looks up at Joe with that irreproachable smile. “Manners.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe barks a laugh and shakes his head. He sinks into the couch and leaves them to their nonsense. “Alright, who’s got the remote?” Goody passes it over, Middsy gets the lights, and Joe hits play.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At some point, in the darkness, Mario shifts. By the time the lights are turned back on, Mario’s draped over Tomáš’ lap,  still being fed snacks like some Roman princeling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe’s more than willing to let them be, but Simmer makes a rude sounding comment in Czech and Tomáš throws a peanut at him. “Hey, no food fights inside!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He started it,” Tomáš says protestingly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What did you say?” Joe asks, swiveling to stare at Simmer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He is,” Simmer begins and then descends into Czech again. When everyone on the couches stares back at him blankly, he says, “You know.” There’s a frustrated set to his mouth. He makes a gesture, opening and closing his hand with the fingers held straight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s talking too much?” Dilly leans in, deeply curious now about this impromptu game of charades.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No! No, he is like mother bird.” Simmer makes a pecking motion with his hand and makes a truly awful clucking noise to illustrate his point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A mother hen?” Joe asks, mirth barely contained.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes!” Simmer points at Joe, nodding. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe cackles. “He’s got you there, Tommy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tomáš is still frowning at Simmer and looks about ready to throw something else, except Mario looks up at him and makes a surprisingly good chirping noise. Tomáš freezes as Simmer bursts out laughing. Mario makes a perfect baby bird noise at Tomáš again, ignoring the rest of them. He’s grinning as he opens his mouth again patiently and even Tomáš has to laugh. Tomáš takes the pretzel he was about to chuck across the room and offers it to Mario, who accepts with delight dancing in his eyes. The guys are roaring with laughter and Joe thinks that Mario has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. He’s going to be cheeping on cue for the rest of the year, whether he’s with the Cuda or the Sharks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe feels like he gets up earlier and earlier every year. He misses being able to sleep in, but having his morning coffee on the porch before the heat of the day sets in, listening to some overactive birds, and watching the dew melt away is pleasant in its own way. He tries not to wake the guys up too early, knows they’ll sleep in if he lets them. It leaves him puttering around the house, answering emails or reading the news, or rewriting his grocery order. It’s a peaceable existence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At some point, the boys get up and get ready for the day. Joe usually hears them in the bathroom first, water running full-force, and then in the kitchen, banging pans around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears the fridge opening and some low murmurs of conversation, and wanders in that direction. He’s gotten pretty good at telling their voices apart at a distance, well-practiced from when Kevin and Dylan were both living with him. The rhythm of their voices has become familiar, ambient noise in the soundtrack of his day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario says something, light and teasing, and then there’s a sharp clatter. Joe pokes his head into the kitchen, just as Dylan snaps, “Jesus, do you have a fucking off button?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He whirls away before Mario can even respond, flushing an ugly shade of red when he sees Joe. He storms past Joe in the doorway without another word, stomping down the hall and slamming the front door in the distance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe takes in the way Mario’s gripping the counter edge, looking shell-shocked. He makes an executive decision. “Go get changed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Into?” Mario’s voice is quiet, but steady. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hiking clothes. Long, light pants if you have them and comfortable shoes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario nods, but doesn’t move.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe walks over to him and carefully unpeels his hand from the counter. He keeps a hand on the small of Mario’s back as he guides him to the hall, gently pushing him towards his room. “I’ll take care of the breakfast dishes. You get ready and come find me. You can grab one of my hats if you need one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe picks up the cutlery Dylan left on the island and sticks them in the dishwasher. He’s picking up the plate when there’s a sad rattling noise. Joe can see a chunk of ceramic on the island and when he runs a careful hand under the plate, he can feel the rough divot. He stands there for a minute,  rubbing his finger over the chipped foot of the plate, then he sighs and sticks the plate in the dishwasher. The plate will be fine, but he’s starting to wonder if Dylan will be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He manages to make two sandwiches and stick them in his hiking backpack by the time Mario reemerges. He’s clearly borrowed one of Joe’s old hats, since the Sharks logo on it is all black and softly rounded. “Sorry,” he says, touching the brim of the hat softly. “I didn’t pack for this weather, really. The only hat I brought is a beanie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s fine,” Joe says, as warmly as he can. “It looks good on you. Can you grab some of the insulated water bottles from the bottom drawer and fill them with ice and water? I’m gonna go grab some sunscreen before we head out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay. Anything else?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nope, that’s all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario insists on grabbing a spare backpack to carry the water himself instead of just sticking it in Joe’s pack. Joe doesn’t argue with him, just hands over the bag and ushers him to the car. He texts Dylan to let him know that they’ll be out for a while. There’s no immediate response, so Joe also texts Burnzie and Timo to ask them to check in with Dylan at some point today. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario’s so quiet on the drive, which is unnatural and concerning. He doesn’t ask where they’re going. He just rests his head against the window and watches as the city quickly dissolves into more wooded areas and open spaces. The houses here are huge, but well-shaded by the trees surrounding them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe pulls into the gravel parking lot and parks right by the rough-hewn wooden fence. “Alright, sunscreen time.” He sits on a large rock by the visitor’s map and Mario leans against the fence as they both take a handful of the sunscreen. The lower trail is shaded enough, but the upper trail will be hot by the time they reach it. If he’d planned this hike properly, they’d have headed out sooner, but it is what it is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He checks his phone one last time. Still nothing from Dylan, but Timo agreed to text Dylan in a little while. Joe slips his phone in the smallest pocket of his backpack, along with the emergency firestarter kit and a loose handful of bandaids.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They start across the dirt and up the dry creek bed. It’s quiet as they pick their way across the rocky path. A man and his dog hurry past them going downhill, and they both move to the side in synchrony. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This late in August, the trees are still blocking a lot of the light, but the irrigation pipes bisecting the path are dry as bone without any rain. They make it out of the tree cover in good time, onto the flatter dirt path. Joe can hear Mario’s breathing over his own and the grinding of the gravelly dirt underfoot. They pass through the low section with the brambly hedges and head up to the grassy hills.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This path goes sharply up and then down a bit and then sharply up again, winding and weaving around the hills. Joe leads the way at every trail intersection, familiar with the route he intends to take. His strides are even as they climb upwards, the sun growing steadily hotter on his back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait,” Mario says, breaking the silence. He’s pressing a hand to his side, grimacing slightly. Joe immediately goes to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just a stitch.” Mario breathes in and out deliberately. “Gimme a minute.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe nods at a spot a few feet down the path. “We can wait in the shade. Do you want some water?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.” They move slowly to the limited shade, and Joe fishes in the bag on Mario’s back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here.” He takes a sip himself and then passes it to Mario.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks. Didn’t warm up enough, I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s alright. We can just rest for a minute.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stand there, listening to the buzz of the insects in the dry grass around them. A lizard sprints across the path and Mario half-smiles at the sight of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, I’m good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me know if you need a break,” Joe says agreeably. The point of this is to get a breather, not to kill themselves with a workout.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are still wildflowers in bloom, mostly in oranges and yellows, dotted in clumps across a crisp, brown landscape. A few white butterflies drift from flower to flower, like scraps of paper floating down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe lingers at one particularly lovely view of the valley floor. There’s an orderliness to the houses arranged far below, bordered by green-beige lawns and grey sidewalks. Mario comes up next to him, almost bumping elbows. He doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders lower fractionally. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wind blows intermittently, but they’re both sweating under the direct sun. They’ll have to put on sunscreen before they start the descent, but they’re close enough to the rest point that Joe is okay continuing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They come around the bend to the rest point at a steady pace. The rickety benches and rusted barn don’t look too impressive. There’s something pleasing, though, in the way they blend in with the surroundings. Joe sits down at one of the picnic tables carefully, avoiding splinters in his hands as well as he can. He digs in his pack and gestures for Mario to sit opposite him. “We’ll rest a bit and then head back down.” Mario mimics him and sits carefully, pulling out a water bottle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Joe hands him a sandwich, he looks surprised. “Oh, thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s nothing fancy,” Joe warns. Still, a turkey-avocado sandwich feels good after the hike. In the shade, Joe can feel the sweat dripping down his back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s good,” Mario says with a small smile. “I didn’t know you had packed food.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course I did. I had a plan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good plan too,” Mario says, looking past Joe at the flagpole. He’s subdued, like he’s not fully here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They finish the sandwiches fairly quickly and just stay there at the table, trading the water bottle back and forth. The last of the ice chips in Joe’s mouth melt slowly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry about this morning,” Mario says, meeting Joe’s eyes seriously.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was going to apologize to you.” Joe furrows his brow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I shouldn’t have pushed. I didn’t mean to upset him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What upset him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was just joking,” Mario says, intently tracing one of the many nicks in the water bottle with a blunt fingernail. “I said something dumb about how he should get adopted with me so I wouldn’t be alone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe keeps silent, tries to convey with every inch of his body that he’s listening to Mario.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean it. I’m just nervous. I know you’re gonna play and Dylan will be your rookie and I guess I’m just jealous that he has that security.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe barks a sharp laugh at that and Mario looks up at him, eyes wide.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think he feels secure,” Joe says, going out on a limb. “And how do you know I’m gonna play?” He’s more curious than irritated by Mario’s assumption.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why wouldn’t you?” Mario asks, looking bewildered. “You’re incredible.” He blushes, probably realizing he sounds like a starstruck fan. “I just mean, they’d be stupid not to want you and you’re outpacing half the people you workout with so you clearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> play. And,” Mario adds a little shyly, “I want to play with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe doesn’t have a damn thing to say to that. He just clears his throat and looks off at the hitching post while he tries to gather his thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He startles when Mario puts a hand over his on the table. “I’ll apologize when we get home,” Mario says sincerely. “I really wasn’t trying to upset him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think he was trying to upset you either,” Joe says with a faint sigh. He pulls out his phone instinctively and then remembers he has no service up here. “I’m not sure if he’s home yet, but I can check my texts when we get down to the parking lot. I want to talk to him too.” Joe flips his hand over and squeezes Mario’s once before he pulls it away. “Anyway, I don’t think you have anything to worry about on the adoption front.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I appreciate the optimism,” Mario says, tilting his head. “I’m trying to stay positive, but it’s kinda a big deal. I really want it to go well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’d be stupid not to want you,” Joe says, mimicking Mario’s earlier words, watching him carefully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario nods and ducks his head. Joe can’t tell if his cheeks are pink from sunburn or a blush. “Can I go look at that monument thing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure. I’m gonna put on sunblock. I think the plaque has something to do with the miners who lived here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, cool.” Mario bounces off to the flagpole, looking genuinely curious.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe grabs the ziploc bags and sticks them in his bag and takes the time to stretch a little. He puts on sunscreen, leaves the bottle open on the table for Mario. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was kinda about the miners,” Mario explains, when he gets back, rubbing the sunscreen into his arms. “But also about something called the Civilian Conservation Corps.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Interesting. I don’t know much about that, but this whole area used to be mercury mines.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Mario says, suddenly making the connection. “That’s why it’s quicksilver, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yep. There’s a reservoir in the park too, but I thought that would be a lot further than we wanted to go today. The reservoir is nice, but they don’t allow anyone into the water and you can’t keep any fish you catch because the mercury levels are too high.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jeeze.” Mario sticks the sunblock in his backpack and shoulders it easily. “Ready to go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.” Joe slings his pack up and leads the way back. “How do you feel about taking a different path back?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario shrugs. “Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d prefer to go down a less rocky path because if either of us twists an ankle before the season starts, they’ll have our heads.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fair.” Mario trots along behind Joe, keeping an easy pace as they head down. This path is less wooded and it will be hours before the sun goes down. They’re both quiet on the way down, but the air holds less tension than it did when they set out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the last stretch down to the car, Mario complains, “I’m sticky.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Joe walks backwards so he can see Mario. The path here is flat dirt, but he keeps checking to make sure he’s not going to run into anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m all sweaty and sticky. Wait a minute.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” Joe stops to the side, letting some hikers pass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario strips his shirt off and uses the wadded fabric to swipe at the sweat on his face. “There.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sticks his shirt loosely in his pocket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least they’re nearly done, or Joe would worry a little about Mario burning the entire expanse of his back. He’s not pale like Gamby, but that doesn’t mean he can’t go all patchy and peeling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they finally reach the base, Mario chucks everything in the back of the car and turns the A/C on full blast; he puts his nose right up against one of the vents and lets the cold air push his curls back off his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joe gently grasps the nape of his neck and tugs him back. “Face out of the airbag zone, please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Feels good, though.” Mario says wistfully. As Joe pulls out of the gravel lot, Mario asks, “You have anything else to drink? The water bottles are empty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gatorade in the back, blue or yellow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario leans over the center console and rummages in the back seat until he comes up with a bottle. He gulps half of it down and then turns to Joe suddenly. “Do you want some?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure, gimme.” Joe reaches his hand for it blindly. The road is straight and traffic is minimal, so he feels comfortable driving with one hand on the wheel. Mario holds the bottle carefully until he’s sure Joe has it. It’s warm, which is kinda gross, but it’s better than nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The whole ride back, Mario’s quiet, but he keeps his body curved towards Joe. He shares the Gatorade occasionally, softly slumped in the passenger seat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario can see Dylan sitting on the steps when they pull in. Joe pats his knee as he undoes his seatbelt. “Go ahead and take a shower. We might be a little while.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want your hat back?” Mario asks, playing with the brim in his lap. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, hold on to it. Tell Dylan to come get in the car. We’re gonna go for a drive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario nods. He hesitates for a moment and then leans in to hug Joe. “Thanks.” He slides out of the car quickly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dylan doesn’t really make eye contact when Mario walks up. He’s shredding some bit of greenery in his hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um,” Mario says, pausing when he’s almost past Dylan on the steps. “Joe wanted you to go join him.” Message delivered, Mario hurries inside. He doesn’t look back to see if Dylan has moved at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He meant what he said to Joe; he’ll apologize to Dylan. It just doesn’t look like Dylan’s even ready to be in the same room as him yet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes a cold shower and gathers up what laundry he has. When he peeks out the front, Joe’s car is still gone. He dumps everything in the washing machine and goes back to his room with a large glass of water. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s half an hour into cutting clips together on his laptop for his next video when there’s a soft knock on his bedroom door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dylan opens the door tentatively. “Hey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, what’s up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you working?” Dylan presses himself to the door frame.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Mario says, but puts the laptop to the side. “I can take a break. I wanted to talk anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Dylan blurts out, face creased miserably. He edges into the room. “I regretted it as soon as I said it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m really sorry too.” Mario tugs at a loose string on the covers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you sorry?” Dylan seems bewildered. “I shouldn’t have been a dick. There was no reason to yell at you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I shouldn’t have said it like that. I didn’t mean it. I’m just...well, jealous. You have the best set up here,” Mario says, gesturing around, “and I have to go sit in some sterile room for hours, hoping people won’t pass me by. No excuses, though,” he reminds himself firmly. “I wasn’t trying to upset you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault!” Dylan insists, sitting at the edge of the bed. The tension has leaked out of his frame. “I’m just on edge. I can be a little...intense. The not-knowing is harder than I thought it would be. Besides, you’re gonna  get picked, no doubt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario sighs. “I don’t want to end up on the Captain’s Roster. I want a real mentor.” They don’t even know who the captain will be yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>specific</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Dylan grabs a nearby pillow and leans sideways on it. Sometimes Mario feels like Dylan is cataloging him, watching him so carefully. He’s not sure how he feels about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know. I just have to wait and see, I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you could pick anyone, who’d it be?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario pauses for a moment to ponder that. Defensemen usually mentor other defensemen and it’s not like the Sharks are short on award-winning defensemen. He likes Erik and Eddie, but he can’t see them being the right fit. Dilly’s fucking awesome, but--”Burnzie.” Mario shrugs sheepishly. “Norris-trophy winner. He thinks the game completely differently than I do,” Mario explains, almost  excited by the daydream. “He knows how to lead, he could help me build that NHL muscle, and he probably could put up with my, you know, energy,” Mario finishes quietly. He’s always known that he was a little much for some people, but hearing it from Dylan had hurt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’d be lucky to have you,” Dylan says seriously, staring him down. “I know Burnzie is like your hero, but even if he doesn’t pick you, someone will.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s important,” Mario explains, voice soft. “I’ve connected with so many people and I don’t want to lose that, but I also know that it could define my career if I get the right mentor now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to stop being friends with anyone, you know,” Dylan sighs exasperatedly. “We’re still a team, whether you end up with the Sharks or Cuda.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Mario says, frowning slightly. “I just, you know, what if the wrong person picks me? What if I say no to the right person?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You won’t. It’s like...say I picked you. And we get along fine or whatever, but somewhere in December you realize that what you’ve needed all along is, I don’t know, Letty. You can still go to him for advice and mentorship and everything if you need it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mario shrugs. It’s not the same. “Did you know that Jumbo was right for you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, he’s always known what I needed. But I also spent a lot of time with Mac and Pavs and Donny last year, both to learn and to have fun. And Joe supported that. Adoption isn’t about finding some kind of uber-coach who will drag you to the Cup. Getting adopted just means you for sure have someone in your corner, looking out for you. Someone who will even put your needs above the team if they need to. As long as you don’t say no to everyone who offers, you’ll be fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What if no one offers?” Mario fiddles with the edge of the rubber case on his iPad. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dylan snorts loudly. “Swear to god, that’s not an issue you’re going to have. Eddie doesn’t even like taking on rookies and he looks ready to adopt you. Oh, that’d be fucking hilarious actually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p><span>“He had Simmer last year and I think he’ll keep him until he graduates. They’ll just sit there at team breakfast, drinking their coffee silently and quietly gossiping amongst themselves. It’d be hilarious to throw your Tigger energy into that and see if you learn the Murder Eyes<sup>TM</sup> or if you teach them how to smile at literally anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t smile at everything,” Mario protests, but there’s a grin peeking out. “You really think I’ll get chosen?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In response, Dylan just flings a throw pillow at him. “Obviously. Now, what are you working on?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I have a video about my new headphones. It’s not as good as I want it to be, so I might have to dub some of the audio. It’s really hard to record clean audio without a dedicated mic, honestly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dylan nods and scoots closer, hugging the pillow he threw as he listens to Mario point out the edits he’s making.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I beg of you: if I have misspelled Mario,  in any number of ways, please tell me so I can fix it. Google Doc refuses to notify me about misspelling his name, which is perfectly mortifying.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Adopt, Don't Shop</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is definitely the section that suffered the most rewriting, but I think it was worth it. Here's the conclusion!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Being on a few team chats means Mario’s mostly up to date on whatever practices and games the guys are setting up. He doesn’t go to every single one, but he tries to go to most of them, especially if Burnzie or Dilly are going to be there. He’s learning a lot from watching them play, even when it’s for fun. They throw their bodies around even when nothing is on the line and they’re definitely not out to hurt anyone, but there’s a physicality to their game that Mario admires.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He catches Joe late in the day to ask him if he’s planning on dropping in on the practice the next day. Joe wasn’t really planning on going, but he agrees to go with Mario. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario has a car now,  but it’s still a hell of a lot more expedient to catch a ride. It feels like he can’t go anywhere without checking Google Maps ten times. He keeps ending up in weird little neighborhoods so he can pull over and check the directions </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Maybe he can use some of his signing bonus to pay a Google engineer to fix the fucking app so it warns about a turn before the turn is already in the damn rearview mirror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario’s up early in the morning, enough time to eat a full breakfast and re-tape his stick. He waits for Joe to catch up, idly snacking out on the porch. The weather is nice even early in the day and the trees are starting to change. It’s idyllic, before all the bustle of the day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Joe finally steps out, Mario wipes his hands clean and follows him to the car. Mario does finally have the route to the practice rink memorized, which is something. Joe mentions that the Cuda will have a practice rink of their own in the next few years. Mario can only hope he’s learned his way around by then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re not the first ones in by a long shot, so Mario flings his gear down next to Martin and starts pulling his pads out of his bag haphazardly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck is this?” Burnzie says loudly, grabbing Mario’s wrist as he moves to put his gloves to the side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,  it’s nothing.” Mario tries in vain to retrieve his wrist, but Burnzie’s looking at his red-purple fingers intently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell the truth,” Joe says, grinning over Burnzie’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Jesus, that looks bad,” Martin says, half in his pads as he leans over. “You slam your fingers in a car door or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t play if you’re hurt,” Mac says from across the room. “Just get some ice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine!” Mario yanks futilely against Burnzie’s hold again. “It’s just a stain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A stain?” Burnzie looks incredibly dubious, but he lets Mario have his hand back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I ate some berries,” Mario says abruptly, turning his back on all their curious stares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It turns out,” Joe says, slinging an arm around Burnzie’s shoulders, “that if you leave a bag of frozen blueberries in the freezer, they disappear. Without a trace. Real fucking mystery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie ruffles Mario’s hair. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack. You just had to stick your entire hand in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was hungry,” Mario protests, but he lets Burnzie toy with his hair. “It’s fucking hot and I didn’t want to have to put grapes in the freezer and wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Use a spoon,” Burnzie says seriously, tugging on a curl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll use a spoon,” Mario repeats dutifully, rolling his eyes. Burnzie shoves him gently and goes back to changing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lemon juice,” Marcus says cryptically as they walk out to the ice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Mario hurries after him, utterly bewildered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lemon juice on your hands will get the stains out. If you don’t have cuts,” Marcus shrugs lightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you even know that?” Mario follows him onto the ice,  gliding a half-step behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pale skin,” Marcus says, turning gracefully to hold out one fair hand as evidence. “My mom used it a few times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Mario says, smiling. “Neat!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They warm up together stretching and doing a few lazy loops on the ice. There are enough guys today to actually take shifts, which is a nice change of pace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario gets paired with Eddie, who tells him, “Go nuts. See if you can score. Who cares?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario’s played enough with them to know Eddie will actually hang back enough that Mario can get a little more adventurous. It's very unlike when he plays with Burnzie and they both have to sprint back like crazy people because they’re both taking risks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been interesting to see what it’s like playing with different guys. Nick and Middsy are both really solid and good at giving directions. Simmer doesn’t really give directions, but he’s pretty much always where Mario wants him to be, so it works out. Mario is hoping that Karl’s genius is somehow teachable because it’s tragically obvious that Mario is always ten steps behind and struggling to catch up. Just based on their informal practices, Mario can guarantee he isn’t good enough to be Erik’s partner; neither his brain nor his feet seem to be fast enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario wishes sometimes that he could play like Dilly or Burnzie,  but he’s shorter and less dense; he can’t rely on checking people out of position for pucks because he’ll just be bouncing off them half the time. It’s been gratifying to smoke them in sprints though, remind them that even if he seems like he’s drifting up, he can get back in position fast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Joner and I have a bet,” Deller mutters to their motley team, wading through them to get to his net. “Loser buys lunch and I have a very nice steakhouse that Jonesy is gonna take me to, so do not ruin this for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw,” Timo says, “we’ve got you. You know we won’t let a puck get anywhere near you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If your ass is in my face again,” Deller lets the threat dangle, but he’s grinning at Timo from behind his mask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo shakes his ass, then leaps out of the way as Deller swipes at him. “Hey! Don’t be jealous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we playing or giving the goalies a lap dance?” Burnzie hollers from center ice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t say no,” Martin yells from behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half the guys crack up as they all slowly move into position. Mario’s starting on the bench so he moves away with Eddie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a good game, fun. Trevor eats shit going over the boards and manages to trip Middsy. No one is hurt, so they get a laugh out of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo slides into Kevin while scoring a goal and they both end up in Martin’s net, along with the puck. Martin carefully cushions them both, but also tries to make a loud case for goalie interference. His pleas fall on deaf ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario gets good ice time, though he doesn’t get anywhere near actually scoring. He doesn’t want to let Deller down, really, so he stays home with Eddie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac and Goody come barreling down the left side, chasing the puck. Mario backs up as Eddie does, keeping parallel. Eddie manages to knock the puck away from Goody’s reach, but Mac picks it up and takes a shot on net. It bounces off Deller’s blocker into Mario’s corner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Head up!” Deller hollers from the side of the net. Mario scoops the puck around the end boards quickly and turns slightly to see Dilly barreling down on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only has a moment to brace, but Dilly just slides past him and yanks hard at the numbers on his jersey. The play has moved down the ice in the other direction, but Dilly won’t let go, hauling him back and wrapping an arm around his shoulders tightly. Dilly’s elbow pads are crunched up against Mario’s neck and he leans further back into Dilly to get away from that uncomfortable sensation, snapping, “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Dilly says, just as sharply. “Don’t ever do something that stupid again. You should never be fucking square to the glass like that. In a real game, a guy like Burnzie could turn you into paste.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Mario says a little irritably. He’s not an idiot. It was just a careless move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what happens when you get hit?” Dilly says, shaking Mario gently. “I gotta drop the gloves and defend my baby Shark.” Mario sputters at that, but Dilly’s skating backwards away from him. “Don’t make me ruin this pretty face.” He winks, chewing on his mouthguard and Mario thinks the entire thing is ridiculous; it still makes him smile a little. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s right,” Deller says, standing lazily in his crease to watch the other half of the ice. “Keep your fuckin’ head up.” He whacks Mario on the hip with his goalie stick to shove him back towards the play.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Offering to fight for someone is a very tender gesture for a hockey player and Mario can feel Dilly’s words settle in his chest, warm and weighty. He really wants to play on this team where they’re constantly reminding him that they’ve got his back, even when they’re being obnoxious about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario’s phone pings very late one night, when he’s in bed, scrolling through Instagram. There’s a new calendar event from Couture in almost a week. The invite says, “Pool Party Team Meeting” and the notes read “Wear swim shorts.” Mario adds it to his calendar and then takes  a screenshot to send to some of his old UMass buddies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost universally, their response is “Fucking California” or “???? Soft af,” whether they’re still in college or not. Mario grins at the flurry of responses, because he’s pretty sure they’re just jealous that their team meetings are not also pool parties. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario wonders if they’ll let him just float on an innertube during the meeting; are the two events sequential or concurrent? It would be peak California to just have the leadership guys sitting on the edge of the pool while everyone else just floated and listened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If team meetings are always pool parties, Mario can understand why Kevin had no qualms about signing a contract so low it had surprised seasoned sports reporters. He doesn’t know if it’s warm enough for a pool party team meeting during a California winter, but he’s willing to try. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He falls asleep quickly, still holding his phone. He has weird dreams about sharks swirling around ominously in a swimming pool, surfacing to look at him with dark, flat eyes. One of the sharks is missing its front teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario wakes up from a short afternoon nap to the sound of his phone buzzing. It’s his mom, so he picks up, naturally. It’s good to hear her voice and it’s nice to check in with her. She doesn’t ask about the adoption, whether it has happened and who, but she does ask around it. She wants to make sure they’re treating him well and he’s happy. He is, so it’s easy to tell her about how much fun it is to play with professionals and how warm and beautiful it is in the Bay Area. The call is short, but it’s good. She promises to tell his dad he says hi and to tell his sister that if he sees one more Instagram post where she’s stolen his favorite sweater, he’s coming home and stealing her fuzzy blanket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lounges in bed a little longer, still feeling a little drowsy, but he eventually drags himself upright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario yawns and stretches, padding into the kitchen. He can hear a rattling noise and the front door is open wide. Joe looks up at him and smiles, pausing his rummaging for a minute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I was gonna leave you a note, sleepyhead. We’re going out. Dylan and I, that is.” Joe resumes his pawing at the open kitchen drawer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We shouldn’t be out too late. Money for pizza is on the counter and the babysitter will be over in ten minutes.” Joe finds whatever he was looking for, whirls around to pat heavily at Mario’s curls, and is out the door in a flash. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The babysitter?” Mario asks the closed door, listening to Joe’s car pull out. There are a few bills on the counter, but Mario ignores them. He’s only just woken up and he doesn’t feel like he’s quite caught up to what is happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanders into the living room and sits down, fucking around on his phone. The sun is setting, but it’s still light enough out. He’s got messages from 2/3 of his sisters, his dad, and a couple guys from college. The guys are going back to school soon and he finds himself feeling a little wistful. It’s incredible to actually play professional hockey, but he enjoyed his time in college a lot. He thinks he might take summer classes or something next year, just to fill in the breaks between training and seeing family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The knock at the door startles him and it takes him a minute to check the peephole. He hastily throws back the deadbolt and opens the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin grins at him and holds up the bags in each hand. “Babysitter checking in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You bring food?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep. And drinks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome in, then,” Mario says with a laugh, letting Martin find his way to the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Joe wanted to go out with his rookies tonight and I’m hoping that means good news,” Martin calls from the kitchen. “He didn’t want to leave you kicking around by yourself, so I volunteered. Now, how do you feel about chicken and pasta.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. I definitely feel good about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great. Do me a favor and soak the dried mushrooms. They’re in the bag on the left, I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario does as he’s told, following the instructions on the bag. “How else can I help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me where Joe keeps oil.” Martin pulls out chicken breasts and neatly slices them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario points to the cabinet with the oil. “Can I help you with something that won’t give me burns?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not going to get burned,” Martin says, turning to look at him with furrowed brows. “Why would you get burned?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The last time I cooked chicken it tried to explode.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was it frozen?” Martin puts down the knife and washes his hands before he rifles through Joe’s cupboard for the bottle of oil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably a little?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t put water of any kind into oil,” Martin says sternly. He stares at Mario until Mario nods. Martin pours a small amount of oil into the pan and turns the burner up high. “Water will make the oil splatter. Have you cooked on your own much?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I lived in a dorm freshman year, so we didn’t even have a proper kitchen available. And when I’ve been on my own, I kept things pretty simple. My mom spoils me,” Mario admits shamelessly. His mom is literally the best and he’d eat her home-cooking any day of the week.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a good skill. My mom was pretty impressed when I managed to come home and prove that Quicky had taught me some off-ice skills too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario had forgotten that Martin started out with the Kings. He can’t imagine learning how to cook from Jonathan Quick. Maybe within a special goalie bond it feels less weird to see a legend as your mentor. “I think my mom assumes I’m still a child. Pros and cons to being the youngest sibling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin smiles and tilts the pan slightly. “See how the oil looks? That’s how you know it’s hot, but you catch it before it starts smoking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario peeks at it while Martin slides to the side to pick up the cutting board. Martin smoothly pushes the chicken into the pan, looking completely unfazed by the sudden WHOOSH as the chicken hits the oil. He sticks the cutting board in the sink and uses a wooden spatula to push the chicken into an even layer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Martin says. “Can you cut an onion for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. How do you want it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just slice it. Don’t chop off your fingers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario gives him a thumbs up and goes to the pantry for some onions. There’s something nice about this, working together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dinner comes together pretty quickly once the onions and mushrooms go into the pan. Mario boils the pasta according to the boxed directions and Martin grins at him like he hand-rolled it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin offers him a glass of wine with dinner and he accepts, setting out plates and cutlery on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s the wine?” Martin asks, taking a bite of his chicken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good?” Mario has no frame of reference, but it seems nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s too bad Brauner isn’t here anymore,” Martin muses, taking a sip of his own wine. “He’d have loved to take you up to wine country and bond over being UMass alumni.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s big into wine?” Mario has no idea where Justin Braun actually plays right now, but he obviously knows the name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh god, yeah,” Martin laughs. “Couldn’t get him to fucking shut up about it. Burnzie kept threatening to make him blind taste-test a bunch of Trader Joe’s wine to see if he actually knew anything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t actually know what makes wine...good. I mean, it’s nice,” he gestures lightly with his glass, “but I couldn’t even tell you what this is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a-” Martin says a word that Mario cannot even begin to parse. Martin pauses and then explains. “It’s a sweet white wine. I think the name is German.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See,” Mario says with a sheepish little shrug, “I don’t know anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bet you could still find guys willing to go up to Napa for the weekend though. Goody would probably take you and show you around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not 21 until September,” Mario points out. It’s something his mother had reminded him of strenuously every single day until he actually flew out. She has some fear that he’s going to end up forgetting somehow that Ontario and California are not the same. He had to promise not to ever end up in the news for underage drinking, even though she definitely knew college hockey wasn’t exactly the home of the sober and sensible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The season is long, buddy.” Martin’s eyes twinkle. “I’m willing to bet you’ll have a free weekend between now and June.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Mario concedes, laughing at himself a little. “And hopefully I’ll be on the team and I won’t have to wait for a weekend where the AHL and NHL seasons align.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘You’ll make the team.” Martin takes another helping of the chicken. “Blue line is pretty thin right now and you certainly work hard enough to play. Once we get you all bulked up and don’t have to worry about you being checked straight through the board, you’ll be in great shape.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conversation devolves slowly into Martin just sharing stories of some of the smallest guys he played with. It’s easy, comfortable, and Mario doesn’t say no when Martin offers him thirds on dinner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They actually manage to finish it all between the two of them. Mario still has a few sips of wine left, but it was nice with dinner and he’d enjoyed it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I brought a surprise,” Martin says abruptly, after a hilarious story from his first year in the league. He goes over to the plastic bag still sitting on the island. “Can you grab a couple forks?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.” Mario digs in the silverware drawer and pulls out two mismatched forks. When he holds them up, Martin nods his approval. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All evidence of this has to disappear,” Martin says seriously, holding a white cardboard box.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Evidence of what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wordlessly, Martin opens the box to reveal a small fruit tart. It’s gorgeous, glossy and bright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Mario manages to stop gaping like a goldfish, he grins and teases, “Oh, you’re the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun </span>
  </em>
  <span>babysitter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s me,” Martin says, plucking a fork from Mario’s hand. “I picked it up from the local Italian bakery today. Dig in. If you’re not fast enough, I can easily eat the whole thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s really good. The raspberries are fresh and sweet, the kiwis bright and slightly tart, and the cream base is perfect. Mario is almost embarrassed by how quickly they demolish it, but when he glances up, Martin looks so pleased that he liked it that Mario can’t find any shame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God,” Mario groans as he finally puts his fork down. “I can’t believe you encouraged me to have more dinner when you knew this was waiting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it’s nice to have someone enjoy my cooking,” Martin says, folding the bakery box down neatly. “Dilly is full of pretentious critiques these days. I think he’s been watching too much Chopped, honestly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario laughs. “Well, I’ll happily tell you dinner is delicious whenever you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you helped! It’s better when you actually work on something and get to enjoy the results.” Martin goes to clear the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, just bring the dishes here and I can wash them,” Mario volunteers. “You did most of the cooking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wash, I’ll dry?” Martin offers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.” Mario takes the neat stack of dishes and gently places them in the sink. “Towels are in the drawer to my right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re quiet through the brief wash-up, letting the sound of the water fill the air. It hardly takes any time at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Martin says, drying his hands on the towel and then offering it to Mario. “I guess I’ll get out of your hair.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario looks down, runs the least-wet areas of the towel over his damp hands. “You don’t have to. I don’t know when Joe will get back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin is smiling when Mario looks up. “Dilly and I have been watching Peaky Blinders. There’s a new season, are you caught up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven't seen the new season, but I’ve watched all the others. I can queue it up if you don’t mind starting from the beginning of the new season.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds perfect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario dozes in the hammock, the filtered sunlight through the trees just enough to keep him warm. He’s got a book open on his stomach, a recommendation from Cooch. It was nice of Cooch to let him borrow it, but it seems awfully dark and murdery to read in such nice weather.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He startles when the hammock sinks on one side and he slides over suddenly. He catches the book before it falls and stares up at Timo and Kevin who are both trying to fit on the hammock with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Move over,” Timo says firmly, shoving at Mario until Mario’s perpendicular to the hammock. They bookend him neatly, settling in comfortably. Timo’s legs are longer than Mario’s or Kevin’s, stretching down so he can push off the ground enough to rock the hammock slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there a reason we all have to share?” There’s another hammock, but they don’t seem to have any inclination to move. Mario closes the book completely and gives up the pretense of reading. When he squirms,  he can see that both of them are staring up at the trees instead of at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re here to talk to you,” Timo says. He doesn’t elaborate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dylan ratted you out,” Kevin confesses with a small smile. “He’s worried about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He thinks you’re too nervous about adoption. Bet you heard some horror stories, huh?” Kevin elbows him softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course it isn’t,” Timo sighs. “Look, there are good reasons for secrecy. Keeps things as honest as they can be. But it also lets idiots in juniors come up with all kinds of rumors.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So if you can’t tell me about it, what are you doing here?” Mario tries not to roll his eyes, but this is a singularly unhelpful conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t tell you what adoption is like,” Kevin says, so carefully. “But, I can tell you what it’s not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not in a dark basement,” Timo offers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not a skills test,” Kevin continues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not out of your control.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not quick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not directed by management.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not random.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not painful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not traditional.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fly back and forth across him until he stops them. “Not traditional? What does that even mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No personal experience,’ Kevin qualifies, “but older teams tend to have certain expectations. The image of a bare room with a locked door doesn’t come from nowhere. Some teams do expect rookies to demonstrate some skill or valuable ability. Some teams have a strict dress code.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All teams,” Timo points out, “do their adoptions after the fall roster cuts. Except the Sharks. We’re the only ones with the AHL team in town so we’re the only ones with cross-league adoptions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“True,” Kevin agrees. “Can you imagine trying to mentor someone in Stockton when you’re all the way in Calgary?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I ask a question?” Mario asks, interrupting them again. It seems like they’re operating on some other wavelength.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. No answers guaranteed,” Timo says, still rocking them without a pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do the Barracuda mentors only pick people who are expected to stay down?” Mario knows most AHL teams have a flimsy adoption system anyway, but what can a Barracuda player offer to an NHL player? If he gets picked by a Cuda player, what does that say about him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo hems and haws. “I think mostly? But I know Mac has mentored a number of players who made the jump because he’s in his thirties and he’s been up and down. He even made the last Olympics, you know? Brodzy’s mentored at least one guy who played in a few NHL games.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re honestly not privy to that information.” Kevin shrugs. “I assume they discuss this in leadership meetings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario nods. “Anything I should be doing to make sure I get picked? Or anyone I should be trying to win over?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t do that,” Kevin scolds quickly. “The minute you start trying to be something you’re not is exactly when you’ll get picked by the wrong person. The whole damn point of finding a mentor is finding someone who works for you.It’s not like everyone else just stops being friends with you because you’re not </span>
  <em>
    <span>their </span>
  </em>
  <span>rookie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario doesn’t have anything to say to that. He hopes that his teammates like who he is enough to pick him quickly and easily. He doesn’t want to feed his own ego, but there’s a certain comfort in not being the bottom of the barrel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo lets the silence hang for a minute before he stops the hammock and reaches across Mario to prod Kevin. “I’m thirsty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you know where everything is. Go find a glass and give me some water. Didn’t Joe teach you how to be a good host?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kevin smacks his hand away, but he does get up. “Mario, you want anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kevin walks back to the house and Timo resumes rocking the hammock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is--” Mario starts and then chokes down his question. It’s stupid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is adoption a good idea? Dylan said,” Mario swallows nervously, “you weren’t going to get adopted again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not,” Timo says, with heavy certainty. “I’m never giving anyone the chance to leave me behind again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But that’s me. You’re going to have to make your own choices.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you had a do-over, if you were like me and new, would you make the same choice?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Timo sighs, wistful and sad. “If I hadn’t depended on him so much it wouldn’t have been so shit. But I learned a lot from him. Learned a lot from the way it ended too, about responsibility and not being a fucking dickhead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario has nothing to offer to soothe the venom dripping from every word. He just turns into Timo and places a careful hand on Timo’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He didn't mean it,” Timo says distantly. “He was really good at the big picture. Great with the team. I don’t think he really wanted a rookie though. The one-on-one wasn’t really his strength. Couldn’t even fucking have a one-on-one conversation about moving to Texas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario winces at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to be an obligation for someone else. It’s not my job to tell a veteran they’re a good person for putting up with me,” Timo says firmly. “They’re all gonna be fucking pissed about it, but I don’t care.” There’s a long lingering silence before Timo shakes himself. “Like I said. You have to make the choice that’s right for you.” He pats Mario’s hip and stands up slowly from the hammock. “I’m gonna go find Kevin. How long can one glass of water take?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario slides further to the center of the hammock without Timo as a counterbalance. How does he know what the right choice is?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the day of the pool party, Mario wakes up to his alarm. Joe had suggested they all drive over together and he wanted to get there early for set-up or whatever. Mario’s happy to help and all, but he’s a little sleepy. He’s had weird dreams since he talked to Timo and some nights it feels like he doesn’t sleep that well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smacks at his alarm and heads to the shower. It feels good, to slowly come alive in the steam. He takes a little time to make sure he works conditioner into his curls after his shower. If he dunks his head in a chlorine pool and doesn’t take care of his hair, all he’ll have is a knotted, frizzy mess. He’s not risking it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario pulls on a pair of shorts and a nice-ish t-shirt. It is technically a meeting today, so he thinks he should look somewhat presentable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has a bag pre-packed for leaving the house, to which he adds the hat that Joe has let him borrow and his swimsuit. Thankfully, through the wonders of online shopping and the postal service, Mario has a new pair of swim trunks. He’d tried on his old ones, but it was clear that a year of training had added too much muscle. If he bent over in those, they’d have split.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes his bag to the hall and leaves it by his shoes. He makes a bagel and a cup of coffee in the kitchen, surprised to not see Joe there. He takes his breakfast to the back porch and eats it there. He sends a couple Snapchats to his sisters. They’re insisting they’ll come and visit when the preseason starts, just to catch the last of the summer heat. He hopes whoever adopts him is okay with a large family descending on them with little to no warning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Joe says cheerfully. “Ready to go? Gamby’s just finishing breakfast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Same,” Mario says, drinking the dregs of his coffee. “Anything we need to bring?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have you and a fruit platter, so that’s everything.” Joe grins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario sticks his dishes in the dishwasher and washes the crumbs off his hands. “Alright, lets go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan is already in nothing but swim shorts. He yawns and smiles at Joe. “Want me to get the fruit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’d be great.” Joe picks up a bag of his own and slings it over one shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario slips on slides and grabs his bag. It’s companionably quiet on the drive,  Dylan choosing to sit in the back with Mario so he can nap on Mario’s shoulder. Mario stays as still as he can for Dylan, watching the lines of morning sun flash across Joe’s mouth as he mumbles along to whatever’s on the radio. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The house they pull up to at the end of the cul de sac is huge,  but there aren’t as many cars as Mario thought there would be. Though, they are here early, so maybe it will fill up later. “Is this Couture’s place?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh no,” Joe laughs. “Cooch’s place is smaller. This is Burnzie’s. Lots of room for a Sasquatch. Cooch just sent out the invites.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario helpfully takes the fruit because Dylan still looks kind of sleepy as they walk up the front path. There’s a paper taped to the door that says, “Don’t knock, I’m unlocked!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure enough, Joe’s able to open the door. In the foyer, there are two large chalkboard signs,  pointing to the left and the right. The left one reads “Rookies” and the right one reads “Mentors,” both in bold blue chalk. Mario doesn’t see them at first, because he’s busy putting his slides on the shoe rack just like Joe, but when he notices them, he can’t tear his eyes away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Joe says, seemingly unperturbed. “Follow the signs. I’ll see you later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait what?” Mario wasn’t really prepared to be abandoned upon entry. He doesn’t know where anything is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Follow the signs,” Joe repeats. “You’ll get to where you need to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan nudges him gently as Joe walks away. “Come on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They go left, into the kitchen. Tomáš is there, looking delighted. “Hello!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Tommy,” Dylan says, peeking at what’s on the island behind Tomáš’ elbow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Muffin?” Tomáš offers solicitously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine.” Mario smiles even though this whole situation seems bizarre. “Should I leave the fruit here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. Put in the fridge,” Tomáš shrugs. He offers a muffin to Dylan who happily takes it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where do we go next?” Dylan mumbles through a mouthful of muffin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go into the den.” Tomáš points through a doorway and down a hall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan heads in that direction, Mario following slowly behind. Burnzie’s house seems so big, with the raised ceilings. The walls have some interesting art, but Mario doesn’t have the time to linger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The den looks bright and cheerful. There are already a few guys lounging on the couch there. Mario recognizes Kořenář, who waves, and Noah, who doesn’t even acknowledge them because he’s staring out the window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s outside?” Dylan asks, going over to Noah.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one yet.” They’re facing the front of the house, though Mario doesn’t remember seeing Noah’s face in the window when they walked up. Noah turns away from the window. “Just waiting to see who shows up next. Hoping I can guess who’s adopting me based on who shows up early.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Adopting?” Mario knows his voice went a little high on that question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit, sorry, you probably didn’t know.” Noah looks genuinely regretful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What don’t I know, Gregs?” Mario’s trying to stay calm, but he’s fairly obviously failing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Adoption day is here,” Dylan says with a stiff smile and underwhelming jazz hands. “Sorry I couldn’t warn you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh.” Mario sits down heavily on the couch next to Kořenář. “Okay. Do we all wait in here together?” That would be a step beyond ‘not traditional’ just based on what Mario knows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah,” Noah says easily. “They’ll take us one by one to where we wait, give us a whole speech. This is mostly to keep us out of whatever the mentors are doing right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s already here?” Dylan asks, flopping down next to Mario and stretching out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Burnzie, obviously, since he lives here. I think I saw Dilly earlier. Sumo and Simmer were both in here earlier, but Cooch took them for a chat and they haven’t come back so I assume they’re already waiting. Haven’t seen either big or little Midds yet. Letty told me he and Vieler are going out for breakfast this morning so they’re probably going to be a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think Roy’s gonna be late again this year?” Dylan asks, one arm casually slung over Mario’s shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He couldn’t be that dumb,” Noah says. Kořenář laughs a little at that and shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re interrupted by Couture entering the room. “Noah, please come with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They watch him go silently. He doesn’t seem worried, so he’s either brave or he knows something Mario doesn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Without Noah, they just sit there quietly. Cooch is back quickly. “Dylan, follow me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan gets up, too quickly for Mario to grab at him and beg him not to abandon him. Dylan squeezes his shoulder with a smile and follows Cooch out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only moments later, two guys Mario doesn’t really recognize come in, but it looks like they recognize Kořenář.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Bibs!” Kořenář smiles at the broader of the two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smaller guy jokes, “Is this a goalie convention?” He notices Mario’s confused look and offers his hand. “Andrew Shortridge. Shorty. I’m the third goalie. Or the fourth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mario Ferraro. I’m a defenseman.” Mario shakes his hand firmly and then shakes the other guy’s hand too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh good,” Bibs says. “You’ll make our job easy this year, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope so,” Mario says with a small smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another stranger walks in, holding a muffin, and the others all whoop when they see him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Full set,” Bibs says with a broad grin. “Join us, Sawzy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario doesn’t get the chance to introduce himself again, because Cooch appears in the doorway and points at him. “Mario, let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario follows him out of the room, rubbing his sweaty palms on his shorts. They pass Tomáš, who gives Mario a very unsubtle thumbs up, and go through the kitchen in a different direction, towards the back of the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Cooch says, matter of fact. “You have a swimsuit with you, right? You might as well change now. Bathroom is on the left here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario nods and ducks into the bathroom. Even the bathroom feels ridiculously large in this house. It’s nice, but absurd. Does Burnzie run laps in his bathroom? Mario allows himself a small chuckle at that as he changes. He’s not sure why he needs to be in a swimsuit, but maybe Couture thinks he’ll get picked quickly and then he can go for a swim. It’s warm enough even inside that he doesn’t mind going shirtless. It’s going to be a hot day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he exits the bathroom, Cooch is waiting with a roll of masking tape and a Sharpie. “Everything in your bag? Phone, keys, whatever?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” Mario holds up the bag and is somehow unsurprised when Cooch takes it and sticks a piece of tape on it with his name. It’s like going to summer camp, though Couture doesn’t look like he’d enjoy that comparison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll hold onto this until you get adopted,” he informs Mario. “It’ll be safe in the spare bedroom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” Mario’s fingers itch for his phone, but he figured they weren’t going to let him call his mom while he waited.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Couture leads him further through the house and out the sliding back door. Walking outside, Mario mostly notices how quiet it is. It almost seems unnatural, after all the team functions he’s been to where there’s nothing but laughing and shouting and music constantly blaring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your adoption today is for the duration of this season,” Couture says cleanly. It sounds rehearsed, deliberate. “You will be offered at least one mentor. Should you choose to decline that mentor, you are not guaranteed any other offers. If you finish today with no other offers, you will be placed on the Captain’s Roster for regular check-ins. Do you understand?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario nods. He understands that he’s only got one shot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pool to the right, large and still. There’s not a ripple in sight as it shimmers under the sun. Mario wants to dive in, break that glassy surface, and sink to the bottom. He remembers holding his breath as a kid, waiting in that perfect stillness until his lungs screamed and he was forced back into the wonderful chaos of his sisters and cousins splashing loudly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More to the left, there’s a row of beach cabanas, made of dark wood and pale linen curtains. They’re set far back from the house, but all adjacent to each other. There’s a little whiteboard attached to each one, a couple of them with writing on them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pick one,” Couture says, pointing at the cabanas, “write your name, and have a seat inside. Do not go into any of the ones that are occupied, please. You don’t know if someone is already having a conversation in there. Stay put until you are chosen, no matter how boring it may feel.” Couture’s voice is monotonous, but his tone suggests dire consequences if he’s ignored.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario nods quickly. “Anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Couture’s hard facade cracks for a minute. “There’s sunscreen in there. Use it if you’re prone to sunburn. Being red as a lobster won’t make you any more appealing to the guys,” he says with a slight smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario nods again. He steps out from the shade, into the sun and walks slowly towards the cabanas. He can feel the heat already, the earth warm where the grass is worn thin. He doesn’t pick the nearest one, some instinct pushing him further down the row. When he glances back,  Couture has already disappeared into the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes the magnetized whiteboard pen and writes his name in small, cramped letters. He pushes one of the curtains aside. It’s so light it’s almost completely insubstantial. He’s not sure how much sound it could possibly block from the outside world. There’s no real roof overhead, just bare wooden slats letting in the sun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a small wooden stool firmly set into the grass. The wicker basket in the corner contains a bottle of water and a tube of sunscreen, neatly arranged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario picks up the bottle of water, more for something to do than anything else. He cracks it open and takes a sip, his throat somehow dry. It’s warm outside and he’s hoping this is over sooner rather than later, because one bottle of water will only go so far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s startled out of his thoughts by the sound of shouting. There’s a moment where he considers staying put, pretending that the fabric around him is a real wall and he can’t hear a thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, his curiosity is much stronger than his desire to be sensible. He pinches the very edge of the curtain and draws it aside fractionally, peeking out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Timo, which Mario sort of expected, and Goody, who he did not expect at all. Goody has a couple inches on Timo, but Timo’s broad, stance wide and steady. He’s facing the house, heels dug in, as he screams, “I don’t want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen,” Goody says, stepping closer aggressively, his voice carrying steadily across the open yard. “Either you walk your ass over there, or you take a swing at me and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>walk your ass over. Make a fucking choice, Timo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you making me?” Something in Timo’s voice is yanking at Mario’s heart, like little claws trying to excavate the hollow of his ribs. “Why?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario can’t hear what Goody says after that, but he sees him turn Timo around gently and walk him across the lawn. Timo’s four tents down from him. Goody lingers outside after Timo has gone in, writing something on the whiteboard. Mario drops his curtain when Goody turns around, jumping back like he’s been electrocuted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paces in the small square, heart racing. He can’t stop hearing Timo’s hurt. Eyes darting around, he notices that the curtains aren’t anchored in the middle. The fabric is tied to the four corners. Without thinking, he pulls the tie loose for the back drape. The corner lifts easily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario goes back to the front and peeks out. He can’t see anyone from where he is, so he takes the risk and reaches out just far enough to smear his fingers across the whiteboard, erasing his name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ducks under the back fabric and ties it messily down. Behind the tents, there’s a little gully, flat pebbles lining the ditch. He walks through it quietly, sneaking even though no one can see him through the wall of cabanas. He’s almost glad he’s barefoot, because it’s easier to walk without kicking the stones. He counts out the cubicles and finds Timo’s. It’s the work of a moment to tug the tie loose. “Hey,” he whispers as he scoots under the fabric. Timo’s back is to him, rigid as a board.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo turns, quick as a snake, at his whisper. Mario still takes the time to re-tie the fabric down and then walks over to stand next to Timo. Timo doesn’t say a word, watching him silently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario sits down in the dry grass next to Timo, watching the slit in the fabric. Timo looks entirely startled by him and Mario supposes that’s fair. Mario ignores the voice in his head telling him he’s an idiot for not following the rules and watches the minute shift of the fabric in the wind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo breaks the silence first. “What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna wait with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re gonna get in trouble,” Timo says, almost pleading. “They’re already mad at me for causing a scene.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>thought of that,” Mario says, deadpan. “And I decided this was worth it anyway. I’m making my own choice,” he reminds Timo gently, throwing his own words back to him. “Until you get adopted, I’m gonna stay with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I plan to wait until the end of the day. What if I don’t get chosen all day?” Timo asks dangerously. It’s highly possible, probably even what Timo wants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, then I’m still your problem.” Mario turns his gaze back to where the curtains are moving in the light breeze and leans his shoulder into Timo’s thigh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo sighs and then rests his hand gingerly on Mario’s head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario breathes steadily, feeling the prickle of the grass against his bare calves. It’s somehow less nerve-wracking when he’s not waiting for his own adoption. He’s doing Timo’s waiting, sharing it at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo doesn’t say anything, but he keeps crossing and uncrossing his ankles like he can’t quite get comfortable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no sound but their breathing, which is becoming strangely meditative. The sun is warm, even when half blocked by the curtains. Every now and then, Timo’s hand shifts slightly in his hair, so careful not to pull or catch on anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Couture pokes his head through the curtains confidently and does a double-take. “What are you guys doing?” He steps in swiftly, looking behind him like someone will catch him doing something he’s not supposed to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Waiting,” Timo says, unyielding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Together?” Couture’s eyebrows shoot up. He opens his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one is going to pick me, Cooch,” Timo explains abruptly. “Mario’s just keeping me company for a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really shouldn’t be here,” Logan says to Mario, deep frown lines etched into his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told Timo I’d wait until he was adopted,” Mario explains loyally. “I didn’t want him to wait alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not getting adopted,” Timo insists, uncowed by Logan towering over both of them. Mario wants to sink into the grass a little, but Timo’s hand is tangled in his hair; he’d like to give himself credit for bravery or steadfastness, but it turns out it’s hard to look Couture in the eyes when his face is like stone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I choose you,” Logan says, arms crossed. “I’m adopting you as my rookie, Timo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who nominated you? Timo sneers, instantly reactive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I nominated me,” Logan says, running his hand through his hair. Logan takes a steady breath and lets it out. He doesn’t move closer,  but he doesn’t step back either. “I’m the captain now,” Logan confesses in a sigh. He doesn’t look at Mario once, eyes only for Timo. Mario didn’t know Logan was already chosen as the captain, but he follows Timo’s lead and doesn’t say a word. “I’m choosing you as my rookie this year.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? Pavs ask you for a favor before he left?” Timo’s tone is ugly.“Isn’t it a little early for everyone else to give up on me and make me the captain’s problem?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not the biggest problem I have right now,” Logan snaps. Confusingly, Timo doesn’t respond to that bait, he just pets Mario’s hair softly. Mario holds his breath, frozen like a possum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Logan instantly looks mortified, like he wishes he could gather his words from the very air and swallow them down. “That’s not what I meant,” he says hoarsely. “They’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>making </span>
  </em>
  <span>me be the captain.” There’s something horribly vulnerable in his eyes, fixed on Timo like he’s trying to telepathically convey some message. “I know I should say, ‘they chose me, it’s an honor.’ It isn’t. It’s all a fucking lot to live up to and I’ve never been known for my ability to make inspiring speeches.” Timo’s hand clenches slightly in Mario’s hair, but he keeps silent. Mario can’t even turn to look at him without pulling his own hair, so he keeps watching Logan with deep fascination. “Tomáš isn’t my rookie anymore. I inherited him too, did you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“From Patty, right?” Timo remembers, something pensive in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’m ready to do everything from scratch. But,” Logan shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking down at the grass, “I don’t want to spend this year alone. I need a rookie who knows what’s going on with the team already. Someone who knows that half the team is just as likely to look to Joe as to me for permission or guidance. I need a rookie who understands </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>and doesn’t take it too personally when I’m an ass.” He grimaces regretfully, throwing a sidelong glance at Timo. “Someone who’s not too shy to call me on it and make me be better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario can see Timo leaning forward slightly, waiting for Logan to say whatever he’s been dancing around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re perfect. You’re exactly what I need. I’m not choosing you for any reason except that I want the chance to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>right this year.” Logan holds out his hand to Timo, and asks very quietly, “Give me something to look forward to this year?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo moves so fast Mario barely sees him, knocking over his stool in his haste. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo says something muffled into Logan’s shoulder, hugging him so tightly Logan grunts at the impact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that, bud?” Logan pushes gently at Timo’s bare shoulder, trying to see his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said,” Timo says sharply, “yes, you idiot. You’re gonna be a great captain. Obviously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario smiles to himself, reaching back to right the stool. He leans over onto the stool, watching Logan’s face soften as he sees Timo’s righteous anger on his behalf. Timo is clearly going to kill anyone in the locker room who dares doubt Couture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Logan’s smile as he looks at Timo is awkward, but genuine. He fishes in his pocket, leaning slightly away from Timo. “I got this for you.” He pulls out a watch. “I know you were looking at it and, well, I thought you’d appreciate it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario’s curious about this. He’s never seen an adoption gift before, but he knows they’re the one thing that varies the most even within individual teams. It’s a personal thing, every guy making his own decision. Timo’s reaction suggests that Logan made exactly the right decision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Timo says breathlessly. “Put it on me.” He holds out his wrist expectantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Logan slips it on him and deftly clasps it. “There. Looks good on you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo preens, touching the wristband with something like awed disbelief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Logan seems to abruptly remember they have an audience. “You,” he says pointing at Mario, “stay here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Mario agrees instantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand,” Logan says seriously, “why you were here, but no more rule-breaking. There’s a reason we do things this way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario nods, chastened. “I’ll stay here. I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll have an offer soon,” Timo says reassuringly. He leans in to hug Mario and whispers, “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” Couture says. “Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walk out together and the curtains fall shut behind them. It seems oddly silent for what feels like a momentous event.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment’s thought, Mario moves to the stool, which seems rather small to balance a hockey player, but it’s not terribly uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The day stretches long, the sun shifting overhead. Despite the apparent flimsiness of the curtains, Mario only hears faint noises from outside. At least a few people seem to be in the pool and there’s the smell of food drifting through when the wind shifts </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His stomach growls. There’s nothing he can do about it, not now. What is he going to do, eat the sunscreen? It’s his own fault anyway, probably. Maybe if he’d put himself first and ignored Timo, someone would have picked him. Maybe no one will pick him because he broke the rules and he’ll just have Couture checking up on him at the end of each month as part of his captain’s obligations. Mario shudders at the thought of being the object of Couture’s pity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The curtains move and Mario finds himself on the edge of his seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe’s smiling face peeks in. “Hey, kid. I’m just checking in. You doing alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario nods. He’s somehow disappointed that Joe isn’t here to choose him. He knows Joe’s already got two rookies to juggle, but he’s liked him. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the waiting ended with Jumbo Joe Thornton as his mentor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I brought something for you to drink, figured you might be getting thirsty. Rules and regulations say you’re only supposed to have water, but I don’t think a little lemonade would go amiss.” He offers Mario a plastic cup, condensation beading on the sides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario takes it gratefully. It’s something at least. The lemonade is sweet and cool and it settles his stomach a little. Joe’s turning to leave when Mario asks, “Am I the last one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I the only one left?” Mario tries not to sound too pitiful, hastily taking a sip of his lemonade like it will ease the lump in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe turns back to look at him. “I can’t tell you anything about the other adoptions.” He sounds almost regretful. “Aw, c’mon, don’t give me that look.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario isn’t sure what look he’s got on, but it’s probably pretty pathetic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, you’re gonna get picked and you’ll be just fine. Take a deep breath.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario does, but it doesn’t stop the tight feeling in his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry. I can guarantee you’ll be just fine.” He sounds like he believes it, which is actually reassuring. The weight of his opinion lends credence to the idea that Mario is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to be left in a cabana until the mosquitos come out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe leaves him too quickly and he’s left staring down at a little plastic cup. He crinkles it in his hand just to hear a sound louder than his own thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has no idea what time it is. It’s still hot out, still sunny. He’s reapplied the sunblock regularly, enough that the coconut scent feels permanently embedded in his nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps standing and pacing tight squares around the cabana because if he sits too long his ass is going to go numb. He’s out of anything to drink, which is a pity because he’s thirsty and vaguely sweaty. Even a couple ice cubes would feel nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves the stool into the shady corner of the cabana and sits there sulkily. He wishes he had his phone so he could text Dylan and tell him he was abjectly wrong. He’s never getting picked and he’s just going to shrivel up and die in Brent Burns’ absurdly opulent backyard. He’s so busy planning his own pity party he almost doesn’t notice the curtains move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin peers in, smiling. When Mario just stares at him, his smile fades slightly. “I’m sorry I’m late,” Martin says quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Late for what?” Mario asks cautiously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, uh, everything, actually.” He steps in properly. “Deller promised to take notes during the meeting, so that’s alright, but I wanted to be here earlier. To pick you. I called dibs at the first meeting,” Martin says earnestly, like Mario won’t believe him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, well, he kind of doesn’t. He tries to clamp down on his suspicious tone, but he thinks it leaks through anyway. “Aren’t you supposed to adopt one of the rookie goalies?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh no.” Martin’s eyes widen. “Deller would never let me. He’s got real opinions about the Cuda and it’s a personal point of pride to mentor those goalies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Mario can’t even process that. He just assumed adoptions ran along position lines, based on everything he’s been told. Martin even said he was mentored by Quick in LA. And there are so many goalies for adoption this year,  Mario can’t imagine Deller choosing to take them all on alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I choose you,” Martin says gently, squatting down so he’s a little below Mario’s eyeline. His voice pulls Mario out of his thoughts. “We had our first mentor meeting a long while back and I told everyone then that I was picking you.” He looks pleased with himself. “Half of them tried to argue with me, but I’m the goalie so I get to make sweeping declarations and do what I want.” He winks and grins and Mario feels like the band around his chest has snapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you let me adopt you?” Martin asks, holding his hand out. Mario takes it, shaking his hand in a strange echo of their first meeting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario can’t stop the grin spreading across his face. He got picked, specially, by the starting goalie. He tilts his head, his hand still in Martin’s warm grasp. “Wait, why were you late?” Everyone else was clearly there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, um.” Martin pinks up. He slips his hand out of Mario’s and rocks forward to his knees so he can dig in his back pocket for his phone. “I wanted it to be perfect. Dilly said it was fine, but I wanted everything set up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swipes through his phone and then hands it to Mario, looking somehow vulnerable there on his knees. Mario takes the phone carefully and looks at the picture on the screen. The jumble of objects doesn’t register for a moment, but then he sees the background pattern of the soundproofing panels arranged on the walls. He zooms in carefully to see the details.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I set it up in one of my spare rooms. I know we’ll be on the road off and on this year, but when we’re home, you’ll have your own studio.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario cannot speak, suddenly choked up. There are tears pricking in the corners of his eyes as he hoarsely asks, “How did you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I made Dylan be my spy,” Martin admits, looking sheepish. He glances up at Mario. “You can change whatever you want in there, but it’s set up and ready to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s perfect,” Mario says urgently. “I don’t want to change anything; it’s perfect.” He hands Martin his phone back hastily and stands so he can pull Martin up to his feet and hug him. Martin’s unbelievably bony, but it’s still the best hug Mario’s ever gotten. He can’t believe how incandescently happy he is, ready to run outside and brag about the fact that Martin Fucking Jones picked him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s only one condition,” Martin says into the side of Mario’s head. “You have to be tech support so Dilly doesn’t keep fucking with my TV settings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario laughs. “Any day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin squeezes him tighter and then lets go. “Come on. Your stuff is just outside. I left it there in case you said no,” he admits, opening the curtain so Mario can step through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario rests his hand on Martin’s hip as he passes. “I’d never have said no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoops up his bag and fishes for his phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never? Not even if Burnzie had asked you first?” Martin sounds skeptical and Mario remembers that Martin has talked to Dylan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t even know you were an option,” Mario says honestly. He wraps a hand around Martin’s wrist to keep him close. “I didn’t know I could pick you. I think,” he says, biting his lip, “we could be really good for each other.” He smiles at Martin and it’s gratifying to see Martin smile back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario holds his phone up and pulls Martin in. “Lemme take a picture. I want to remember this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin leans in, curls himself around Mario, and steadies the other side of the phone so Mario can take a selfie of them both beaming in the sun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin squeezes the back of his neck. “Come on. A hell of a lot of people were getting antsy about not seeing you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin is proven right seconds later when they step into full view of the pool and a delighted cry goes up. Timo’s grinning from where he’s glued to Cooch’s side and Deller looks pleased when he rakes his eyes over them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan and Dilly both rush over to hug them enthusiastically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dylan hisses, “Told you so,” in Mario’s ear and Mario can’t even begrudge him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins and nods. “You did. You’re all set too?” He must be if he’s not waiting still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep. Joe’s staying.” Dylan’s smile at that is so sweet Mario can barely handle it. Mario hugs him again, happy that Dylan and Kevin get to keep Joe. He ignores the selfish part of him that’s simply happy to get to play with Joe; that’s not what today is about.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario and Martin get separated in the deluge of well-wishers almost immediately. Middsy and Baby Midds squish him in a hug and shove him over to Nick, who smiles at him. “Hey, looks like it worked out. You and Trev both look less nervous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I shouldn’t have worried  so much,” Mario admits. “Where’s Trevor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Over with Eddie. Eddie made his decision pretty quickly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario can see Eddie, Simmer, and Trevor over by the fence. Trevor waves, clearly smiling, as Eddie steals food from his plate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario eventually makes his way over to Joe. All he has to do is beam up at him and Joe knows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You picked well,” Joe says quietly into Mario’s ear, pulling him into a hug. Mario didn’t think he’d ever get used to Joe’s general disdain for shirts, but now he hardly notices. He leans in, presses his face against Joe’s warm skin. Joe’s voice rumbles through him. “He’s so happy to have you. You planning on coming back with us tonight or going over to Martin’s?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Mario has no idea. He’d almost forgotten he’d have to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe solves his dilemma simply. He hollers across the pool. “Jonesy. Where’s the kid sleeping tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My place,” Martin shouts back. He looks at Mario and nods encouragingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There,” Joe says. “You can pick up your stuff anytime. Might as well hang on to your key too.” He smiles at Mario and Mario can’t put into words how grateful he is to Joe. He just hugs him again, knows Joe will understand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Timo congratulates him, Couture just stares at him over Timo’s shoulder. Mario tries to convey with body language that he’s sorry for breaking the rules. Timo tells him, “You made your choice.” He quirks those sharp eyebrows of his and Mario sees it for the approval it is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Couture measures him in a gaze and says, “You’ll look out for Jonesy too, won’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” It’s the easiest promise Mario has ever made. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By late evening, Mario’s a little tipsy and full of good food. He brings a plate of snacks over to Martin and leans into his side. Martin’s taking turns playing beer pong, but he takes a break to hug Mario and steal one of the tiny lemon-blueberry tarts. He’s talking with Dilly about golf and Mario can’t imagine anything more boring, but Martin’s got a comfortable arm around his shoulder so he stays. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He eats and drinks and laughs with the others throughout the evening. Everyone is circulating in little pairs, reluctant to separate for too long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie’s sitting with his legs in the pool, chatting with Middsy, when Mario makes his way around to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie grins, tongue poking through the gap in his teeth. “Hey!” He stands up just to hug Mario and lovingly facewash Martin. “Pleased with yourself?” he asks Martin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin gestures at Mario and just says, “Obviously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s a dictator,” Brunzie sighs dramatically to Mario. “Demanded he get dibs on you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario can’t help the little flush of satisfaction he gets every time one of the vets reminds him that Martin chose him. He chose him early on, when he hardly knew Mario at all and then he worked so hard to get to know Mario. It’s beyond flattering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Weird question,” Burnzie says casually to Mario,  something wicked twinkling in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I throw you in the pool?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario laughs. “Sure,  give me a second.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds his phone out to Martin. “Can you keep this safe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, anything else that shouldn’t go in the water?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything else is in my bag over by the door.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin takes his phone and steps to the side,  a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Go ahead, Burnzie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie steps in slowly and bends down a little so he can grab Mario’s hips firmly. He hoists him up effortlessly and flings him out. Mario hits the water with his legs tucked under him and sinks down, letting his momentum carry him. It’s dark in the water, despite the pool lights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When his feet hit the bottom, he pushes back up, bursting back into the light. When he wipes his eyes and pushes his hair back he can see Martin’s joined Burnzie at the edge of the pool. Martin smiles when he sees him swimming back over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got that on video,” Martin informs him when he reaches the edge. He lets Mario prop his dripping forearms on his knees. “I told you, didn’t I? Now he wants to just carry you over his shoulder all the time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burnzie laughs, but he definitely doesn’t deny it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good thing you’re there to look out for me,” Mario says lazily, resting his chin on his crossed arms. Martin smooths out his soaking wet curls with a gentle hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Middsy kicks him lightly underwater. “You should lean into it. See if you could get him to carry you everywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’d be so good for my endurance training,” Burnzie says thoughtfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Martin says, playfully scowling at Burnzie. “Leave my rookie alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deller floats by at some point on an inflatable alligator, lingering just long enough to pat Mario on the head before he aims his alligator at Bibs’ macaw. It’s reassuring to have the other goalie’s approval. He'd feel bad if Deller wasn't happy with the division of rookies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stay up late under the glow of the fairy lights strung all around the backyard. When Mario gets out of the pool, it’s gotten cold enough that he’s grateful for the towel Noah passes to him. Noah and Goody make their way around as more people leave the pool, handing out towels and nudging people towards the fire pit. Mario stays wrapped in the towel, tucked between Martin and Tomáš. Tomáš is clearly speaking in another language to the guy on the other side of him, but Mario doesn’t mind being ignored a little; in any case, Tomáš keeps handing him little bits of food, bite-sized snacks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly leans around Martin to ask Mario, “So you like the set-up? All the soundproofing and everything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love it.” Mario leans into Martin’s side and, despite the fact that the towel around him is likely damp and cold, Martin holds him close. “I couldn’t have imagined anything better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He spent so much time figuring that out,” Dilly says teasingly. “Constantly texting me about the specifications of different mics and ‘oh Dilly, what if he hates it? What if it’s so bad he moves back to Canada?’” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin places his hand firmly over Dilly’s mouth. “Obviously, it was worth it,” he says. There’s something fond and warm in his eyes when he glances over at Mario.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dilly rolls his eyes, but he’s clearly smiling behind Martin’s firm grasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While some of the guys are setting up s’mores, Kevin wanders over to lean on Martin’s shoulders. “You know, Joe’s gonna be so lonely now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He has Gamby,” Martin points out mildly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“SO lonely,” Kevin repeats. “You’ll have to arrange regular playdates to keep his spirits up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He looks fine to me,” Martin says with a quiet laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the fire, Mario can see Joe smile at them, eyes crinkling softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have to respect your elders,” Kevin says seriously. “You have to, Jonesy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, alright, I’ll set up playdates,” Martin says, swatting at Kevin. “Get your bony elbows out of my shoulders.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kevin plants a kiss on the top of Martin’s head. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario can feel himself getting sleepier. His trunks are dry by now and his hair is well on its way. The only thing that really keeps him up is the way his feet are getting cold. He stretches them towards the fire in the hopes he’ll stay warm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready to head out?” Martin asks him softly. Mario nods against Martin’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, let’s go. You go and change while I say our goodbyes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario stands slowly and makes his way back to the house. It’s colder without the towel wrapped around him and he regrets leaving it behind, but he’s inside soon enough. His bag is right by the door and it’s not hard to find a bathroom to change in. He can see in the bathroom mirror that he looks exhausted, but undeniably happy. He sends a picture to the guys in the UMass chat, wanting to share this moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he walks out, Martin is waiting. Martin insists on wrapping an arm around his shoulders to walk him to the car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have spare pajamas and toothbrushes, so we can head straight home. Is there anything else you need tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, that’s fine.” Mario slides into the passenger seat. “Oh, wait do you have an iPhone charger?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, the newer one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’ll work. I have to text my mom before bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell her all about your day?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell her I got picked by the starting goalie,” Mario says a little smugly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin laughs at that. “Think she’ll be impressed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’ll have to wait until she actually meets you, I think. The whole family wants to come down for the preseason, so you’ll get to see them then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t wait.” Mario can hear the sincerity in Martin’s voice and he thinks his mom really will be impressed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The drive is short, but Mario does enjoy when Martin slides back the cover of his sunroof so they can see the stars above. It’s not so full of streetlights here out here,  so it’s easier to look into the dark expanse of sky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they finally arrive, Martin puts a hand on his knee as he’s unbuckling his seatbelt. He presses a key into Mario’s hand. “This is yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario promptly adds it to his key ring, right next to Joe’s. He knows he’s grinning stupidly, but he can’t help it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin unlocks the front door and walks in ahead of Mario, leading the way. He turns and gestures broadly as he says,“Welcome home.” Martin turns on the lights and keeps moving, going to turn on the thermostat and get a glass of water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mario stays there in the foyer for a moment, taking it all in. He can feel his contented exhaustion prodding him towards bed, but he wishes he could hold this day forever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can hear Martin singing to himself in the kitchen and the quiet hum of the A/C. He wants to freeze this slice of perfect belonging, something to keep in a cupboard for a rainy day. It’s a snapshot of love, a promise to be careful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't wait to share this year with Martin.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All of your comments along the way really kept me going. I'm grateful to you all and I hope this ending was satisfying!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title from Witter Bynner's The Heart</p><p>Aesthetic from a soft dream I had once</p><p>Concept from swedishgoaliemafia's Rookie Adoption AU on tumblr</p></blockquote></div></div>
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